


A Christmas Princess

by snowhite_dahlia



Category: A Christmas Prince (2017), A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Homophobia, Crossover, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 09:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22053328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowhite_dahlia/pseuds/snowhite_dahlia
Summary: Theon Greyjoy was a down-on-his-luck writer, stuck in his dead-end job. That is, until an unexpected opportunity sends him North to cover the sudden coronation of playboy and party-girl, Sansa Stark. He went North to get a story, but what happens when he finds himself falling for the crown princess? A Theonsa fic set in the modern AU of A Christmas Prince.
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark, Yara Greyjoy/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 12
Kudos: 63





	A Christmas Princess

**Author's Note:**

> Like all good things, this began as a joke. And then it was just a "quick" cool-down post-NaNoWriMo. And then I spent the entire month of December working on it. A bit of a late Christmas present for my absolute favorite pairing, so please enjoy. (Also, please picture Euron less as actual Euron and more just as Pilou Asbaek.)

This was not where Theon Greyjoy had expected to find himself.

Well, that wasn’t wholly true. It could have been any number of circumstances that would lead him to be sitting in a rumpled sweater on an overnight train through the meandering countryside, headed to the North. It was more that this wasn’t exactly the direction he’d expected his life to take.

Ever since he discovered he’d had a knack for putting a pen to paper (or rather, fingers to a keyboard), he’d wanted to be a writer. He’d worked his ass off—and after losing both his parents and moving to the mainland to live with Uncle Euron, he’d worked even harder. He’d scored a scholarship to one of the most prestigious schools in King’s Landing (even though Yara gave him unending shit about it) and graduated with honors. Fucking  _ honors _ .

But life took a turn after university. It didn’t matter how hard he worked because there was nowhere  _ to _ work. It seemed he’d pitched his novel to basically anyone who would stand still long enough and yet, no bites. 

So, Uncle Euron had let him come work at the pub. He wasn’t bitter about washing glasses and calling cabs for his uncle’s too-inebriated patrons—it was honest work and he enjoyed spending time with his uncle, listening to his almost-certainly exaggerated stories about stunts he pulled in his youth—but in the end, he knew that this wasn’t what he wanted to do for the rest of his life.

So when Yara had sent him the job opening at the magazine where she graphic-designed, with a promise that she would recommend him and definitely not refer to him as “a little shit” to her bosses, he’d leaped on it. It was entry level, barely above grabbing coffees and making copies, but it was something.

Of course, after two years, even that had lost a bit of its luster. He volunteered for any assignment— _ every _ assignment—but more often than not, it went off to one of the top dogs and he would instead get asked to do clean-up work on Petyr Baelish’s latest puff piece about the world’s most gif-able puppies.

And once again, it was desperation that had brought him here, to this train car, on his way to do an assignment he was barely qualified for. 

“Why are you sending me?” he’d asked, not wholly unconvinced that this wasn’t a prank.

“Because,” Melisandre had said, dropping the brief on her cluttered glass desk with a heavy thump. “I sent all my decent reporters to Dorne to cover the Martells’ latest international incident.” She’d raised a well-manicured eyebrow at him. “If you think you can’t hack it—”

“I can hack it,” he’d interrupted, slapping his hand over the folder, knowing he would not get a second chance.

Her red lips had twisted into a smile. “Hope you’ve got your passport.”

Theon rubbed at his eyes. Of course corporate wouldn’t spring for a sleeping car for him, so he’d tried his best to sleep with his scarf rolled up between his head and the window, with minimal success. He doubted his accommodations in Winterstown would be much better. He leaned down to his messenger bag and pulled out the file Melisandre had given him, reviewing its contents one last time before the train pulled into its station. He was no reporter by any stretch of the imagination, but he was trying desperately to ignore that. Besides, if Petyr-fucking-Baelish could do it, surely he could manage?

The press conference was early that afternoon, so he only had enough time to drop his bags at the hotel, before hustling up to the Winterfell castle for the press conference. Afterwards, he’d try to get some soundbites from officials, maybe reactions from the locals… He wasn’t wholly sure what he was walking into, but he’d go at it with his usual determination of will. And besides, if things went well here, it might  _ finally _ spell a promotion for him or, at least, a reprieve from puff piece clean-up.

He closed the folder and pulled out his phone, opening up an image search for Sansa Stark. Swiping through the photos reinforced most of what he’d gleaned from Melisandre’s file and his casual internet searches: the only daughter of the royal family of the Northern Kingdom, she’d earned a reputation as a party-girl and something of a heartbreaker. Photographers had caught her outside this posh nightclub or that one, always with her arm around a different guy or girl.

Most of these photos had been from at least a few years ago, Theon noticed, most even further back. Since the sudden death of her father, the honorable King Eddard, right before Christmas of last year though, she had taken to evading the paparazzi, almost going into hiding. The most recent photos of her were outside a coffee shop near Highgarden, sporting giant sunglasses and a slouchy overcoat.

Theon swiped again, this time bringing up the official portrait of Winterfell’s royal family. King Eddard was certainly a sour looking fellow, with dark eyebrows and even darker eyes. His surviving wife, Queen Catelyn, was certainly the one who brought the looks to the genetic pool. Both firstborn son Robb and Sansa favored their mother’s side, with vibrant auburn hair and almost unnaturally blue eyes. Rounding out the tree was the youngest son, Bran, who sported the dark hair and dark eyes of his father, but seemed to have considerable more mirth to him. 

Theon had never much kept up with royal gossip—after all, they were a bit of a dying breed these days, with more and more of both of the continents heading towards things like “democracy” and “elected officials.” Perhaps their growing rarity was what earned them such fascination from the rest of the world, a reminder of what he could only assume was a romanticized past.

But the news of King Eddard’s untimely death had reached even him, deep within the modern world of King’s Landing, mostly because of the dramatic lurch it had thrown the Northern Kingdom into: with the King gone, it was widely assumed that Robb, as the eldest child, would rise to take his place. An assumption that was all well and good up until a few months when he abruptly abdicated and fucked off to Essos with his beautiful new bride. The country was left in a lurch, with all eyes turning to the second child to see if she would take up the mantle instead.

Which is exactly what Theon was on his way to find out. The royal family had announced a press conference wherein the rumors of “will she/won’t she” would finally be settled. And in all honesty, Theon could give two wet eggs about whether or not some rich, bratty heiress was about to ascend a throne: thrones, dead kings, successions—it was like something out of a fantasy novel. Nevertheless, this was finally his chance to break out of the grind of his current position and maybe, just maybe, catapult himself to something greater.

Just as Theon lowered his phone down to stare out the window at the passing scenery, he felt it vibrate in his hand. Picking it up again, he saw that it was an incoming video call. Standing up from his seat, he awkwardly shimmied out between the other passengers and into the hallway, quietly sliding the door behind him.

“Hi Yara,” he greeted his sister.

“Hi, baby brother,” she returned, her voice sing-songy. “Dany’s here, too—say hi, Dany.”

Sliding into the screen was his sister’s girlfriend/flat mate/co-worker/any number of HR violations, her pale blond hair in a loose braid over her shoulder. “Hi, Theon,” she waved. He waved back, trying to summon half a smile in the interest of platitudes. 

“Gods, you look like  _ hell _ ,” said Yara, squinting at her own screen. Theon ran a hand down his certainly tired face.

“Thanks, sis. Love you, too.”

“Are you still on the train?” interrupted Dany, assuming her fifth title as sibling tension moderator.

“Yeah, should be less than a half hour till we’re at the station.”

“I imagine there might be some fellow nobility in attendance, yeah?” Dany offered. “Be sure to report on how in-bred they look.”

Theon laughed in spite of his exhaustion. “Will do.”

“You’re going to do  _ great _ , baby brother,” Yara insisted at last. “And if you don’t, well, I’ll just start telling everyone you’re adopted.” 

“Sounds great,” Theon laughed, ignoring his sister’s latest barb as always. “I’ll talk to you after the press conference.”

“Ok. And text Uncle Euron when you get in,” Yara added quickly. “Say bye, Dany.”

They all exchanged waves before Theon tapped the screen and disconnected.

When at last the train pulled into the station, Theon gathered up his bags and began the slow file-out with the rest of the passengers. As he stepped off the train, he was greeted by a particularly nasty gust of Northern wind. He pulled his worn coat around him, wishing he’d put on another layer and wondering why any sane person would live up here.

Hauling his overnight bag along on his shoulder, he wandered out in search of the taxi queue and promptly found it already full of impatient would-be passengers. He sighed and took his place at the end of the line—apparently the royal announcement was drawing quite the crowd. He took the opportunity to text his uncle, who quickly returned the message with three smiley face emoji, a train emoji, a thumbs up, a peach, and a “ _ —Euron.”  _ At some point, he and Yara would need to address their uncle’s lack of tech expertise.

At long last, Theon reached the head of the queue and a sleek silver taxi pulled up along the curb. “Finally,” he muttered to himself as he bent down to fetch his bags. However, just as he was throwing his luggage over his shoulder, a tall man in an over-sized overcoat and beanie pulled low over his head came speed-walking out of the terminal, directly towards the waiting taxi.

“Oi!” Theon called angrily, as the taxi-thief opened the back passenger door and slid directly in. The man gave a flippant wave at Theon before slamming the door behind him and taking off.

“Yeah, screw you, too, mate!” he called after the fleeing car, adding several colorful curses under his breath.

Blessedly, it didn’t take long for another car to slide into its place and before he knew it, he was rolling along the old, snow-covered cobblestone streets towards his hotel. He’d hoped to maybe sneak in a shower or at the very least a change of clothes but, after the taxi debacle, he’d pretty much had to ditch his bags and rush out to catch the press shuttle. Before he’d left his room, he’d given himself a quick survey in the mirror: his shirt and sweater were heavily rumpled, his scarf with deep creases from its night as a makeshift pillow. Not a great look but there was nothing to do, except make an attempt at taming his unruly curls with a quick finger comb.

The shuttle up to the castle was cramped with his fellow reporters, most of whom stared at their phones with hard, disgruntled looks. His benchmate looked him up and down as he finished clicking in his seatbelt. “First time?” he asked gruffly, eyebrow raised. 

“Yeah,” replied Theon brightly, before thoughtfully adding, “Any tips to share?”

“Find a new career,” and he returned his gaze to his phone.

“Cool,” muttered Theon, his smile becoming thin.

The drive up to the castle was winding, with civilization slowly fading away from them, replaced with snow dusted trees and rolling white hills. The cold was still barely tolerable, but he soon found the placid countryside growing on him. He’d spent most of his life in the urban jungle of King’s Landing, where nature had to be purposely manufactured, and the stony shores of Pyke were mostly just faded childhood memories. To be out in the sprawling bed of nature almost filled him with a childlike delight.

At last, the van came around a bend and Winterfell came into view. King’s Landing, old as it was, had its fair share of ancient architecture, though everything had been converted to serve more modern purposes. So, to see an old castle being used for its original purpose, after all these years, was its own sort of fascination. The stones were all dreary shades of grey and slightly darker grey, but an attempt at festivity had clearly been made with garlands and lights hung about the structures great walls. Theon wondered if it looked like this every holiday season, or if it was just a show for the reporter pool.

He followed his newfound colleagues inside, towards the Great Hall where the conference was to be held. Theon knew from his research that the Stark family took the direwolf—which, he assumed, was just a bigger, fancier wolf?—as the symbol of their house and clearly, they leaned in hard. Banners lined the wall boasting the great beast, and every piece of artwork featured it in some way. Even the suits of armor, polished and gleaming, featured nods to the animal. If nothing else, Theon, thought, you had to respect the commitment to a theme.

Once the pool had settled in, a short, stout man bustled out to the podium in front of them. He gave a nervous smile as he dabbed at his red forehead with a handkerchief. This looked… not great, but Theon waited to see what he might say.

“Esteemed members of the press,” the small man began, his hands clutching at the podium. “The Royal Family of Winterfell is so grateful to you for traveling all the way to our snowy hold, however,” and he paused to wipe at his brow again. “However, I regret to inform you that we must cancel our scheduled conference this afternoon as it appears our dear Crown Princess Sansa is, well, indisposed.”

A din of groans and angry mutterings rose up from the pool and above it, a voice yelled, “When will you be rescheduling?”

“Th-there will be no rescheduled event at this time, I’m afraid.” His response only intensified the displeasure and noise from the crowd. Theon shot his hand up, which earned a few laughs from his veteran colleagues.

“Yes, the polite young gentleman in the back,” called the stout man, pointing at Theon, who rose to ask his question.

“Will the princess be available for interviews at all?” he asked desperately, earning a few more chuckles from those around him.

“No,” came the flat reply. “None of the Royal Family will be available for comment, I’m afraid.”

Once again, another loud voice cut through the room. “Just admit she’s not going to take the crown so we can be done here!”

“Members of the press,” called the short man over the rabble of the crowd before him, “I assure you that Princess Sansa’s crowning  _ will  _ continue as scheduled at our annual Christmas Eve Ball in just a few weeks time. Thank you for your time!” And as quickly as he scurried in, he scurried away.

Theon fell into his seat with a defeated  _ plunk _ . This wasn’t how this was supposed to go, this wasn’t how  _ any _ of this was supposed to go. He watched helplessly as the crowd of press grumpily filed out of the room. He couldn’t go back south with nothing to show for his trip here. It took very little effort to picture Melisandre sitting behind her giant glass desk, her dark eyebrows knitted in annoyance, silently dooming him to puff piece hell for the rest of his miserable days.

He had to get something,  _ anything _ . Just a scrap of info, a soundbite, a whiff of rumors—all he needed was a shred, anything to keep him from the misery of having to shuffle into Melisandre’s office empty-handed. 

As he stewed in his impending doom, a movement at the edge of his vision caught his eye—a maid, silently slipping through a side door. Suddenly, a plan began forming in his brain. An incredibly stupid plan, perhaps the dumbest of all actual time.

_ But _ it was a plan.

The last of the press were still shuffling out of the hall and so Theon stood and began to saunter his way towards the side passage the maid had disappeared into. He tried—and surely failed—to keep his gait casual, casting sideways glances around the room before gripping the door’s handle. A rush of courage later, the door was open and he was behind it.

Looking around, he found himself in an unoccupied hall, lined with more bizarre wolf memorabilia. Inside his chest, his heart pounded, knowing full well he was definitely somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be. Almost in time with his heart, his mind kept hammering out a refrain of  _ this is stupid, this is stupid, this is DEFINITELY stupid _ .

Silently, his sneakers padded along on the intricately patterned rug that ran down the hall. Slipping his phone out of his pocket, he started snapping photos, though admittedly, he wasn’t entirely certain what he’d do with them. As he turned to focus his camera on a particularly gaudy suit of armor, a voice came from behind him.

“Can I help you?”

A wholly unnatural and high-pitched sound escaped Theon, his phone almost fumbling out of his hands. Turning around, he found himself face to face with what he assumed was a member of the household staff, a tall, ginger-haired man with eyebrows lifted in polite expectation.

“Apologies, I was just—that is, I think I got lost, and—” Theon scrambled for an excuse, any excuse to explain his presence. However, the butler cut him off, after giving Theon’s disheveled appearance a once-over.

“Ah!” he exclaimed brightly, pointing a white-gloved finger at Theon. “Southron?” he asked, clearly picking up on the subtle lilt in Theon’s accent.

“Y-yes,” Theon hammered out, not sure where this line of questioning was going, but dreading its ending nonetheless.

“You must be the new tutor for Prince Bran,” the butler collected, clearly not reading the growing horror in Theon’s expression. “Did no one meet you at the train station?”

“N-no—” Theon smoothed down the front of his coat, trying to look cool and calm, though he was really just trying to wipe the sweat from his palms.

“Well, apologies for that, ser. I’ll bring you to Mr. Poole straightaway, shall I? He’s the steward of the house.” And without another word, he’d spun on his heel and was marching down the hall, Theon hurrying after him.

The mantra of  _ this is stupid, this is stupid _ escalated in Theon’s head to  _ this is stupid, this is wholly fucking stupid _ as he struggled to keep pace with his guide’s long strides. As they went along, the butler pointed out various artworks of interest, or explained where different doors went off to. Theon heard none of it, the two halves of his brain in a war for control: one side begging him to speak up, to correct the confusion; meanwhile, the other side was percolating an even stupider plan than the one it had concocted a few minutes ago.

At last they came to a grand staircase, upon which stood three men in conversation. Two of them were in uniform similar to Theon’s companion and the third, a thin man who looked vaguely annoyed about, well, everything. This is who the butler addressed when he called, “Mr. Poole.”

He turned his piercing gaze to Theon, who was only growing more and more aware of just how ill-fitting his clothing was. “What’s this?” he asked coolly, gesturing to Theon.

“Prince Bran’s new tutor. Just arrived off the train today.”

Another scrutiny-ridden gaze. “You’re Jaime Sand?” asked Mr. Poole, slowly removing the readers balanced at the end of his nose. “You don’t look like a Sand.”

“And what does a Sand look like, exactly?” retorted Theon.

The challenge clearly ruffled the man’s feathers, giving Theon some footing. “You weren’t supposed to be here until after the holidays,” Mr. Poole replied, pivoting the conversation.

“Yes, well, my previous assignment ended early,” Theon answered automatically, experiencing the dual emotions of pride at his off-the-cuff reply and shame that he was continuing this terrible charade. “Thought I might pop up here early, get a head start on the prince’s studies.”

“Queen Catelyn did express a desire to keep the prince occupied over the holidays,” offered the butler in Theon’s—well, Jaime’s—defense. 

Mr. Poole gave the both of them another of his withering glares, clearly chewing the information over in his mind. At last, he snapped the folio in his hand shut, clearly announcing he’d made up his mind.

“Follow me, then,” he said, already moving up the staircase. “I’ll…  _ present _ you to Her Grace, and then I’ll show you to your quarters.”

The deeper they went into the castle, the more grandiose it seemed to become. It really  _ was _ like something out of a fantasy novel, or maybe more like a museum, except people actually lived here? Theon had tagged along with Yara and Dany to plenty of parties at the homes of the obscenely wealthy (“How do you know these people?” he’d sometimes ask and she’d always laugh and reply, “I don’t,”), but this was something entirely different. This was, well,  _ royalty _ .

After twisting and turning through too many hallways, Theon having to speed-walk to keep up, they finally came to a pair of open, dark-stained doors. Inside, Theon could hear voices, tense voices.

“…unacceptable for you to continue missing these royal engagements, Sansa. I expect  _ more _ of you.”

“These aren’t ‘royal engagements,’ Mother—these are  _ three-ring circuses _ .”

The steward led them into a small apartment and Theon discovered the owners of the voices. The first was clearly the Queen, tall and stately with her auburn hair pulled up into a modest updo. To one side of her was a shorter, lean man, probably close to Theon’s age. He had black hair, the unruly curls of which he’d tried to tame into a low ponytail. On the Queen’s other side was the second voice, whom she’d been arguing with. At first, all Theon saw was their silhouette, shrouded by an over-sized overcoat and his run-in at the taxi stand suddenly flashed into his mind.

“It’s you,” the words escaped him without a thought. “You’re the jerk who stole my cab.”

His words won her attention and she looked at him with his accusingly pointed finger, one eyebrow neatly raised. “I beg your pardon?” she asked. She.  _ She _ . Gods, she was a  _ woman _ .

Theon stood fixed in his shoes, a sudden sweat raising on his back. He’d assumed from her height and baggy clothing that she was a man, but seeing her now, with half of her paparazzi disguise removed, he realized how wrong he has. Her hair was piled on her head in a messy bun, clearly having been hidden under the dark beanie that she now held in her hand along with her large sunglasses. He recognized her now from the photos he’d searched of her, but there was something about her that the photos did not fully capture. Her height, certainly—even in her flat sneakers, she easily stood over her mother and her dark-haired companion, and was as tall as, if not an inch taller than, Theon himself.

The Princess and the Queen were certainly a pair to behold in person, a matched set with their fire red hair and blue eyes so bright they might be able to cut through glass with a bit of effort. But it was more than their looks, it was their whole…  _ presence _ . Something about the way they both held their shoulders back and their necks tall, as if their very physiology had always intended for them to wear a crown. They were, simply put, breathtaking and Theon truly felt his commoner status standing before the two of them.

“You stole my cab,” Theon repeated. His voice was suddenly so small.

“I don’t think I have any idea what you’re talking about,” she replied, her cerulean eyes challenging him to correct her.

“There was a  _ queue _ —"

“Mr. Poole, what exactly is the meaning of this?” interjected the Queen, exasperated.

“This,” continued the steward, dragging Theon fully into the room by his elbow, “is the new tutor for the prince, Jaime Sand.”

The Queen narrowed her eyes at Theon and he could practically feel her words before they even came out of her mouth. “You don’t  _ look _ like a Sand.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” Theon replied.

“ _ Your Grace _ ,” hissed Mr. Poole at Theon, clearly incensed that he’d forgotten his courtesies. 

“Sorry, I get that a lot,  _ Your Grace _ ,” corrected Theon, moving his right foot behind his left and punctuating his apology with a small curtsy. Out of the corner of his eye, Theon saw the princess watching him, clearly amused.

Suddenly, the doors on the opposite side of the room burst open and through them came a young boy, hurrying along on a pair of crutches. He had dark, shaggy hair and Theon recognized him as Bran, the prince and his pupil-apparent. 

“Sansa!” he cried in elation as soon as his eyes found his sister, who crossed the room in a few long strides to scoop up her sibling. Laughing, she swung him around, a veritable tornado of legs and mobility assistance devices. “There’s my little imp!” giggled the princess, a far cry from the stately woman she’d been just a few moments ago.

It was clearly a reunion for the siblings and Theon’s heart couldn’t help but warm at the sight. Beneath all the royal veneers, at the core of it, they were still a family like any other.

“Sansa,  _ please _ —” came the Queen’s voice over the laughter of her children. “Put your brother down—”

With one last breathless laugh, Sansa set her brother’s feet back to the floor, ensuring he was steady before she released him. Bran, who’d previously only had eyes for his returned sister, finally took note of the stranger in the room.

“Who are you?” he interrogated Theon, his voice barren of all the joy he’d saved for his sister. “And what are you doing in my castle?”

“This is Jaime Sand,” the Queen explained, a pale, stately hand directed toward Theon. “He’s going to be your new tutor.”

Bran’s nose wrinkled. “You don’t  _ look _ like—”

“Like a Sand,” Theon finished wearily. “Yes, I know.”

“And it’s  _ ‘Your Royal Highness _ ,’” Bran added sourly. The good will that Theon had been feeling towards these royals just moments ago was quickly evaporating.

“Would you like to place bets on how long  _ this  _ one lasts?” Sansa whispered to her little brother conspiratorially, her voice clearly loud enough for Theon to hear. Suddenly, this plan which already felt colossally stupid was becoming  _ impossibly _ stupid. Theon swallowed.

“Well,” Mr. Poole interjected, steering Theon by the elbow again, this time back towards the door. “We’ll leave Your Grace and Your Royal Highnesses in peace; come, Jaime.” The steward gave a respectful bow and Theon, trying to avoid any more faux pas, attempted to do the same. However, Mr. Poole was already hurrying out of the room and, in his desperation not to lose his guide, Theon spun too quickly to follow him and made a head-on collision with a large vase atop a high pedestal. It crashed to the ground with a sickening sound.

Theon could feel his cheeks growing hot and wondered—even hoped—if perhaps the royal family might just release him from his pain and execute him on the spot. He was too afraid to even look at what combination of horror and anger had darkened upon the Queen’s face, but he was certain that out of the corner of his eye, the Princess was suppressing a laugh with her hand.

“I—I am so sorry. I didn’t—I can’t—” A million apologies were all trying to escape Theon at once, but before a coherent one could surface, he felt Mr. Poole’s hand on the back of his sweater, promptly dragging him from the scene of his crime.

* * *

When Mr. Poole had shown Theon to Jaime Sand’s quarters, it’d taken several ounces of restraint to refrain from diving headfirst on to the large, plush bed. The bedroom alone was certainly bigger than his entire apartment back in King’s Landing, and then there was the bathroom, its own gilded affair. Despite the age of the castle, everything felt new and clean, as if Theon might be the first person to ever use these quarters as his own.

As he marveled at the lifestyles of the rich and the royal, he suddenly remembered that he was, in fact, not there to enjoy the softest bedlinens the North had to offer. He’d inhaled a quick breath of courage before pulling out his phone and dialing Melisandre.

“Just to be clear, you’ve actually  _ infiltrated _ Winterfell?” she’d asked after Theon had explained his situation.

“Yes,” he replied. “Is this—is this illegal?”

“We have a fund for things like that,” Melisandre replied, doing nothing to soothe Theon’s anxieties. “I have to admit, I’m impressed, Greyjoy. I knew you were eager, but  _ this _ ? An exclusive, insider look at Winterfell’s royals?” Theon could practically hear her designing the spread in her head.

“Is there anything in particular I should be looking for?”

“Capture everything,” she instructed. “Whatever you can get, especially around the princess. Record their conversations if you can, talk to the help—especially talk to the help. If there’s a dirty secret, they’ll know. And Theon?”

“Yes?”

“If this pans out, it could mean good things for you. Big things.”

“Thanks,” and he tapped the call off.

For a moment, he just stared at the black screen. Secretly, he’d hoped that getting the a-ok from headquarters would ease some of his moral qualms about the predicament he had swung himself into, but he found no reprieve. And it wasn’t like he considered himself some Self Righteous Bastion of Upstanding Moral Fortitude—he’d certainly told his fair share of white lies over the years: a faked birthday to get a free cake at a restaurant here, a fib to his uncle about where he was going tonight there. But there was something different about this level of deception; it was…intimate. Unbidden, the face of the princess with her bright blue eyes floated into his mind.

He shoved it away, reminding himself that it was desperation that had brought him to this, not malice, and he felt some comfort. Wasn’t this the moral equivalent of stealing bread to feed your family? And weren’t the stakes higher for him, a struggling writer just barely making ends meet as opposed to some lot of wealthy royals living insulated in their castle walls? Surely they could weather whatever he wound up publishing and come out the other side, but Theon—he  _ needed _ this.

But still, it did little to assuage his conscience, and so, he clicked his phone back on and video-dialed Yara.

In a moment, her face appeared on his screen. “Hey, brother,” she greeted him casually, before peering at her phone. “Where  _ are _ you?”

* * *

It was Mr. Poole who came and summoned Jaime Sand for his first lesson with the young prince. As they wound through hallways and corridors—always at a breakneck speed, gods these people walked  _ fast _ —Theon was glad for the escort. It seemed impossible that he might ever learn his way around this castle, though he felt some relief after learning that Winterfell had been added upon and expanded through its long and storied history, which accounted for some of the twisting and turning and other nonsensical directional aspects of the place.

“I trust you brought your lesson plan?” the steward asked coolly, looking at Theon out the corner of his eye.

“Apologies, the—ah—agency hasn’t sent it to me yet,” he covered, earning a dramatic sigh from the other man.

“Here,” Mr. Poole said testily, pushing a leather folio into Theon’s chest with a soft  _ thunk _ . “My experience with your southron agencies has been less than ideal—is everything always so… loosey-goosey in the South?” 

“Never fear, ser,” Theon said, attempting to placate the man. “There’s absolutely nothing loose about this goose,” pointing a thumb to his chest for emphasis.

The steward peered down his nose at Theon, one eyebrow raised in appalled confusion.

“I—that is to say—it’s an old Dornish saying,” blurted Theon, trying to explain the nonsense that had just ejected from his mouth.

“Right,” replied Mr. Poole, before opening a lacquered door behind him. “Here we are.”

The door opened up into a comfortable study, with books of varying sizes, ages, and languages lining the walls. In the center of the room was a large, dark table piled with even more books and seated at it in a wheelchair was Bran, who looked up from his notebook at the entrance of the two men.

“G’morning,” Theon greeted him brightly before hastily adding, “Your Highness.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” said Mr. Poole, excusing himself and closing the door behind him.

Theon crossed over to the desk, setting his folio down amidst the books. But, when he went to pull out his chair, he sucked in his breath at the sight of a small white mouse scurrying along the cushion. Theon’s wide eyes immediately went to Bran, who wore a self-satisfied smirk.

“What’s wrong?” asked the boy, picking up the animal by the tail and placing it back in its glass vivarium. “Don’t care for mice?”

Maybe it was the attitude, maybe it was the lop-sided smirk, maybe it was simply the fact that Bran was the same age Theon had been when he’d lost his father, too. Whatever it was, he was reminded of himself, the smarmy pre-teen who so easily covered every hurt, every slight, with a quick joke or a sly line.

Theon slid into his chair, leveling his gaze at the boy. “Look, mate—I’ll be honest, I respect the hustle. But we gotta workshop this, bring it up to the next level.”

The smugness evaporated from Bran’s face, replaced by suspicious disbelief. 

“Mouse on the chair? A classic,” began Theon, clasping his hands together. “But there’s too much that can go wrong. Mouse gets away? Now we’ve got an animal on the loose. Worse yet, I don’t look at my chair? Then we have a  _ flat _ mouse.” For a moment, Theon rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “What if—and hear me out— _ remote-controlled fart machine _ . Granted, it requires a bit more pre-planning, but there are way fewer variables to it. Plus,” and he leaned towards Bran, lowering his voice, “it’d probably be a lark to use on that Poole fellow.”

As Theon spoke, Bran’s face had slowly warmed, the suspicion replaced with the seeds of camaraderie. It brought a smile to Theon’s face.

At that moment, a figure came through the door. Slight and dark of hair, Theon recognized him from his introductions to the Royal Family from the previous day, despite the addition of a pair of round glasses. He had clearly expected the room to be empty, judging by the surprise on his face at the sight of Bran and Theon.

“Ah, didn’t realize you were in here. Sorry, Bran,” he said with a nod to the boy.

“It’s alright,” Bran said lightly, before gesturing to the man before them. “This is our cousin, Jon.”

Theon stood, crossing the room to shake hands with him. Jon was certainly a cousin from the Stark side of the family, his dark hair and dark eyes mirroring those of Bran and his late father. “Cheers,” he said by way of greeting. “I’m Th—the—the tutor. Bran’s tutor. Jaime Sand.” Theon ignored the sweat that raised on the back of his neck at his almost-slip. It’d be a miracle if he didn’t get found out at this rate.

“Jon’s a bastard, too,” Bran added nonchalantly.

“ _ Bran _ ,” Theon scolded, turning to face the boy.

“What?” asked Bran, trying to defend himself. “It’s true!”

In the South—at least, in King’s Landing—social attitudes towards marriage and sex were certainly evolving, so it was less and less of an anxiety to have to submit job applications with a “Rivers” or a “Stone” on it. But, here in the far more conservative North, Theon was certain that the bastard surname carried a much heavier weight to it.

“Just because something’s true doesn’t make it ok to blurt out,” Theon replied, trying to soften his tone at the sight of Bran’s guilty expression.

“Sorry,” the boy apologized quietly.

“It’s alright,” Jon cut in, waving his hand as if to clear the tension.

“So, it’s ‘Snow,’ is it?” Theon asked, turning back to Jon.

“Yeah,” Jon said, pushing his glasses back up his nose with a finger. “My mum was sister to the king, but she passed right after I was born.”

“I’m sorry,” said Theon.

“It’s alright,” said Jon again. “Bit nice to have another around the castle,” he admitted, a small smile tightening his mouth.

A pang of guilt cut through Theon’s stomach at his deception. He rubbed at the back of his neck self-consciously. “I’m sure you lot have it much harder up here—practically a badge of honor down in Dorne,” Theon said, trying to force out a laugh.

“Maybe I’ll head for the South someday then, eh? I hear the girls are prettier down there anyway,” Jon joked back and, like clockwork, the image of Sansa Stark materialized in Theon’s brain.

“Well,” Jon said after a beat, “I ought to let you two get after it. Good to meet you, Jaime.” And with a small wave, he disappeared back through the door.

“So,” Theon continued, clapping his hands together and crossing back to the desk. “What are we working on today?” Dutifully, Bran slid his homework towards Theon.

“Want to check my work?” Theon picked up the paper, his eyes roaming over the bizarre assortment of symbols and equations—they were equations, right? And not like, ancient runes meant to summon a demon—and felt any sense of confidence he had quickly fade away.

“Right,” Theon said at last, setting the boy’s work aside. “Why don’t we start with English? That was always my best subject.” And quickly, he began thumbing through the books piled upon the desk until his hand stopped at a familiar title.

“ _ The Sailor and His Sea _ !” Theon exclaimed with nostalgic delight, freeing it from the pile and running his hands over the worn cover. “I must’ve read this a hundred times when I was a kid in Pyke.”

“I thought you were from Dorne?” Bran asked skeptically. 

“Born there,” Theon said quickly, his mind racing. “But I grew up in Pyke. We… moved around a lot.” He shot Bran a sideways glance, wondering if his latest cover worked. Yeah, it would  _ definitely  _ be a miracle if he didn’t get found out. “Do you enjoy a lot of reading?” Theon asked, desperately trying to shift the focus off himself.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bran’s tone had turned hard again.

“Nothing,” Theon answered, confused at the sudden shift in temperature.

“Because I use a chair? The only hobbies I can have are reading?” And with a burst of fury, he wheeled himself away from the table and over to the window.

Shit. A misstep.

Theon followed, the apology ready on his lips, but when he saw Bran’s face—his mouth set into a hard line, his wet eyes a thousand miles away—he opted to hold his tongue.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Bran said at last, his voice bitter, too bitter for someone so young. “’Poor little rich boy, what’s he got to cry about?’ Well, you’ve got no idea what it’s like.”

“You’re right,” Theon agreed, prompting Bran to turn his gaze back up at the man. “I don’t. But it doesn’t mean I can’t listen.”

Bran chewed his lip for a moment and at last, the hard shape of his brows softened. “It’s just—my mum hardly ever lets me out of here. She makes everyone handle me with kid gloves.  _ And _ , if I do get to go out, everyone’s always fussing over me. I hate it. It’s—” he struggled for a word.

“Suffocating?” Theon offered.

“Yeah,” Bran said, looking out the window again. “It’s only gotten worse since Dad died and Robb left.”

Theon followed Bran’s gaze out the window and, off in the courtyard, he noticed a now-familiar head of red hair.

“Why don’t we get some fresh hair— _ air.  _ Why don’t we get some fresh air?” he suggested. Bran looked up at him, quizzically.

“But—are we allowed to do that?” the boy asked, shifting uncomfortably.

Theon responded with a shrug. “Who cares? You’re the prince, I’m an adult; there’s surely a combination of those two things that gives us some amount of authority, right?”

A small smile wheedled its way into Bran’s features. “Let’s do it.”

After a quick stop to bundle up against the chill, the two were on their way out into the brisk cold air. As soon as it hit his face, Bran’s whole demeanor seemed to change—once or twice, Theon saw him breathing the fresh Northern air deep into his lungs and it erased any guilt he had about their unsupervised field trip. Weaving his way along the paved pathways, Theon pushed his newfound pupil along, hoping it wasn’t too obvious that he was cutting a path directly towards his older sister.

At last, they came around a bend into the courtyard. Just a few feet in front of them stood the princess, her back to them with a bow in hand and some distance off was a large target, riddled with arrows of varying accuracy.

“Hullo, Sansa!” called Bran eagerly. She paused her shot, lowering her bow as she turned to face her new companions. Suddenly, Theon was glad for the support of the chair as he tried not to trip over his feet.

The princess’ look was a vast change from her disguise of the previous day: she wore a crisp, tailored grey coat over slim pants, tucked into brown leather riding boots. Her fiery hair had been pulled into a neat braid that fell almost too perfectly over her shoulder, and her face was freshly made up, the dark mascara and smoky eyeshadow only serving to further intensify the piercing nature of her eyes. At their approach, a breeze floated through the courtyard, softly rippling the loose hair around her face. Gods, she was almost  _ supernaturally _ perfect.

“Hello,” she greeted them, a perfect smile warming across her perfectly perfect lips. Because she was  _ perfect _ . Gods, what was that like?

“What are you up to?” asked Bran, eyeing the apparatus in his sister’s hand.

“Just a bit of archery practice.” She gave them a curious eye. “Aren’t you supposed to be studying?”

“Jaime said we could come get some fresh air,” answered Bran matter-of-factly, before eagerly asking, “Can I have a go?”

“Why not?” replied his sister, smiling and passing the bow and arrow to him and stepping out of the way, while Theon dutifully wheeled him into position. Bran straightened in his chair, nocked the arrow, and drew the string back. A moment later, the arrow was plunged into the second circle of the target, just off the center. Bran let out a triumphant  _ whoop _ .

“Not bad!” Theon exclaimed, clapping him on the shoulder.

“’Not bad?’” echoed Sansa, raising an eyebrow. “Think you can do better?” And she took the bow from her brother and pressed it into Theon’s chest, the challenge issued.

Bran moved out of the way as Theon drew a piece of ammo from the nearby quiver and assumed his spot. Theon hadn’t had much to be confident about since his arrival in the North, but this? This he was prepared to nail. Or, at least, he hoped he would nail. If he didn’t, it’d probably be harder to live down than his un-Sand-like appearance.

Drawing the bow, he pushed his shoulders down and held the string to his cheek. As he let out a breath, he released the arrow. A  _ whush _ later and it was sticking square in the center of the target. He resisted the urge to cry with relief.

He turned around to his companions, Bran wearing an expression of pure awe and delight and Sansa, well, she was harder to read, but Theon was almost  _ certain _ there was an ounce of surprise there. “Archery Club, all through university,” he explained with a little curtsy.

“Show me how to do it!” Bran begged enthusiastically, reaching for the bow in Theon’s hands, but Sansa slid between them.

“Ah ah,” she chided, before fixing her steely gaze on Theon, sending an arrow of ice straight through his heart. “Ladies first—why don’t you give me a primer, Jaime?” And she plucked the bow from him, retrieved another arrow, and took aim.

Theon was unsure if he had entered the ninth circle of heaven or hell—perhaps this was his penance for parading around in his false identity? There was something wholly intimidating about correcting a princess’ form— _ this _ princess in particular. Much like yesterday, there’d been a challenge in her eyes, a dare, and though it terrified him, it also felt impossible to back down from. Regardless, he took a deep breath and came to stand behind her.

“This elbow needs to be up,” he said, tapping her bent one with his finger. “And relax this one—just a bit—too much—there you go. Also, you need to cheat your hips a little farther.” Sansa turned the lower half of her body, but the wrong way—was she doing this on purpose? He swallowed before reaching down and lightly correcting her with his hands—gods, was she  _ smiling _ ?

“Now,” he continued, suddenly aware of how misty his breath was in the cold, winter air. “Lower your aim just a hair.” But, of course, she didn’t move. So, ever so delicately, Theon pressed himself to her, his hand resting atop hers, clutched to the bow’s grip. With the distance between them closed, he was suddenly able to realize what felt like secret details about her—like how her hair products smelled of lavender or the light speckling of freckles just along her cheekbone. He realized he’d been holding his breath, and he released it in a slow sigh.

…which was a mistake. His mouth was close to her ear and the sudden air must’ve tickled her, because she suddenly loosed the arrow at an awkward angle, causing it to crash through a nearby window.

For a moment the party was all dumbstruck with horror. It was Bran who came to his senses first, clapping his hands and announcing, “time to go!” He was met with a small chorus of agreement as they all gathered themselves and tried to flee the scene of the crime as quickly as possible. As they fled, Theon was almost certain he heard the shriek of Mr. Poole through the newly opened window.

* * *

“It’s like… bloody  _ alchemy _ or something, Dany. I swear.” Exhausted, Theon covered his face with his hands, wanting nothing more than to fall back into the pillows of his bed and promptly go to sleep. Maybe when he awoke, he would no longer be haunted by the bizarre symbols that made up the prince’s math homework.

It was late and Theon was back in his quarters, sitting cross-legged on Jaime Sand’s bed. Spread around him like some sort of dark summoning circle were papers containing all manner of sums and Pythagorean theorems and other haunted forms of mathematics that Theon most assuredly did not understand. In front of him sat his laptop, containing the concerned face of Dany Targaryen. To her left sat Yara, playing on her phone and otherwise ignoring her brother’s pleas for help.

“Hold it up to the screen one more time,” instructed Dany. Theon did so and he could see her purple-grey eyes squinting at her own screen back in King’s Landing, a million miles away. “Theon, sweetie,” she said after a minute, her tone gentle. “I think you’re fucked.” He let out a depressed groan.

“Didn’t you say the kid was smart?” piped in Yara at last. “A few weeks of bad schooling isn’t going to ruin him for life.” 

“Yeah, well, if I’m to continue playing at being a competent tutor—”

“Have you considered just pretending that this Jaime Sand fellow is a rotten tutor? Now  _ there’s _ an idea—”

“How’s the rest of your assignment going, Theon?” interrupted Dany, her role as mediator ever secure.

“Fine?” he shrugged. “It’s just—I keep trying to find skeletons in closets, but I don’t even know if these people have the closets? I dunno. What I really need is to get the princess alone—”

“You hear that, Dany? He needs to be  _ alone _ with the  _ princess. _ ”

Theon could feel a heat in his cheeks. “It’s not like that, Yara,” he protested. “I’m just trying to—study her in a professional capacity.”

“Yeah? And how much of her anatomy have you studied—”

“ _ Ignore her _ , Theon,” Dany said sternly, pushing the chuckling Yara out of the frame. “Keep at it, you’ll crack this thing eventually.”

“Thanks, Dany,” Theon sighed, before looking at the clock in the corner of his screen. “It’s late.”

“We’ll let you get your sleep.” She smiled sweetly before dragging her girlfriend back into view. “Say bye, Yara.”

* * *

In the cold light of day, the prince’s homework still made little sense and Yara’s suggestion of simply hanging Jaime as a poor math pupil was a more and more attractive idea. But it still didn’t solve his much bigger problem of digging up dirt on what he was beginning to deem a wholly dirtless family. Perhaps free-wheeling older brother Robb had taken all the dirt with him to Essos?

Interrupting his thoughts was a light rap on Theon’s door. Opening it revealed Bran, looking barely his age in a suit jacket and pants, and pushed in his chair by Mr. Poole. At the sight of Theon, a smile warmed his young face.

“I’m here to invite you to a party. As my guest.”

“A party?” repeated Theon.

“The Royal Family will be entertaining esteemed members of the nobility,” explained Mr. Poole, before adding through a thin smile, “including, apparently, you. Hopefully, you have something… suitable to wear?”

Instinctively, Theon ran his hand down the front of his collared shirt, trying to smooth out its wrinkles in vain. He summoned a smile for Bran. “I’ll see you there.”

Theon Greyjoy only owned one “nice” jacket and he had, thankfully, brought it with him to the North. In truth, it was a hand-me-down that his uncle had gifted him ahead of his interview at the magazine. The elbows of it had seen better days, so Dany had helped him cover them with patches. “It’s like  _ academia, but make it fashion _ ,” she’d told him encouragingly, wearing that sweet smile that made her nose wrinkle. One day, Theon would figure out what someone like Dany saw in someone like his sister.

The jacket had certainly passed in the casual urban hemisphere of King’s Landing, but wearing it amongst the Northern nobility, amongst people who had things like  _ servants _ and  _ summer homes _ , was another thing entirely. Hopelessly, he paired it with one of the three ties he owned, a black and silver patterned affair.

What Bran had dubbed a “party” was a cocktail hour held in what Theon could only assume was one of Winterfell’s smaller ballrooms. The room was filled with Esteemed Members of the Nobility as promised, all in well-fitted dinner jackets and elegant cocktail dresses, delicately holding flutes of champagne and tittering at jokes that Theon did not understand. Under the current of conversation floated a soft melody of notes provided by a harpist tucked into the corner. A harpist—surely the cornerstone of any casual get-together.

For his part, Theon stood glued to the wall, patiently observing the room’s occupants as he took measured sips of his drink. Occasionally, a smartly dressed member of the wait staff would come by, silver tray in hand, and offer him all manner of unidentifiable lumps of meat. As quickly as they would come, he would wave them away with a polite smile. And then, just a small distance away from him, the queen glided into view, an older, well-dressed gentleman at her elbow. As discreetly as he could, Theon slipped his phone from his pocket and began snapping photos as he tuned in to their conversation.

“…of Parliament, myself included, who are… concerned about the princess’ hesitations in regards to the throne,” the old man was saying.

“Prime Minister,” began the queen, turning to face him and drawing herself up to her full height. “Allow me the task of putting your mind at ease: Sansa has no ‘hesitations,’ as you so delicately put it. She is more than prepared for the task of assuming her father’s crown.”

“With all due respect, Your Grace, there are many who would value  _ your _ continued position on the throne, at least, for a few years.”

At that, a smile spread itself across Queen Catelyn’s lips. There was no joy in it though, only a weary, weighted sort of pain. “My time on the throne ended with my husband’s. It’s time to let the next generation guide us into the future.”

“Having a good time?” Suddenly, the bright face of young Bran Stark appeared in front of Theon.

“I am,” he returned, a lop-sided smirk warming on to his face at the sight of his young pupil. “Interesting lot you’ve got here,” he added, scanning the glittering crowd.

Bran shrugged, looking over his shoulder. “Have you eaten anything?”

“No, I haven’t really seen anything that’s been… my jam, exactly,” Theon said diplomatically.

Bran chuckled, looking at a nearby platter. “It’s all pretty bad, isn’t it?”

Theon opened his mouth, prepared to dutifully gush about all the tender delicacies he’d been offered but Bran stopped him. “It’s alright—no one ever came North for the food. Follow me, I’ll show you where the good stuff is.”

A few moments later, they were seated across from each other, both eagerly devouring their own enormous, festively frosted sugar cookie. 

“Praise the  _ gods _ , that’s a damn good cookie,” Theon sighed.

Bran beamed. “I helped make them.”

“Really? Shit, I need to steal your recipe. A man could get marriage proposals with a cookie that good.”

“Maybe I could help you bake some for my sister.” Theon nearly choked on his baked good. “You  _ do _ stare at her an awful lot, but don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me,” the boy said with a grin. 

“You’ve clearly warmed to me if you’re considering me for brother-in-law material,” Theon observed, casually trying to steer away from the topic of his companion’s tall and gorgeous sister. “What gives?”

Another shrug from Bran. “You treat me like a normal kid. Not everyone does that.”

“You  _ are _ a normal kid,” he insisted. “Well—except for the supernatural baking abilities. That’s highly abnormal and makes me worry that you may have sold a bit of your soul.” The boy let out a laugh, but it was cut short into a grimace as his eyes caught hold of someone beyond Theon’s right shoulder.

“What is it?” asked Theon curiously, looking over his shoulder. “Who are we grimacing at?”

“D’you see the greasy fellow standing by my mum?”

And indeed, there  _ was _ a greasy fellow standing by the queen. He was short, close to Jon’s height, with black hair that looked like it had never heard of this cool new thing called shampoo. But it wasn’t just his hair—his whole… _ aura _ was greasy. Everything about him, from the slimy way he rubbed his hands together, to the way his pale eyes darted about, to his wholly unsettling smile. He wasn’t just someone you didn’t want to meet in a dark alley—he was someone you didn’t want your worst enemy to meet in a dark alley.

“Who’s that?” asked Theon, turning back to Bran.

“That’s Lord Ramsay, of House Bolton,” the boy answered, leaning towards Theon. “Way back during the Great War, my father discovered that  _ his _ father was still—” he paused, dark eyes flicking side to side, “ _ flaying _ prisoners.”

Theon looked around helplessly, half-eaten cookie in hand. “Is that—what is that?”

“You know, like… torturing people? By skinning them?”

It was the second time today Theon choked on his cookie. “Gods, Bran—how do you know about this kind of stuff?”

Another shrug. “I  _ do _ read a lot. Anyway, my father found out and was furious and there was a huge trial and everything and House Bolton got kicked out of court. Ramsay’s spent his whole life trying to earn my parents’ favor so they can come back. He even tried to date Sansa for a little bit, but she shot that down pretty quick.”

Theon threw another look over his shoulder at the man in question, who was planting a very unwanted kiss on the queen’s hand. If the guy didn’t give off such an odious air, he’d respect the sheer confidence of thinking he had any sort of shot with local earthly goddess, Sansa Stark.

“He’s also a—a you-know-what,” Bran continued, side-stepping around The B-Word, “but his father legitimized him a few years ago and he doesn’t let anyone forget it.”

“Finally found where all the cool kids are hanging out.” Theon turned to find Cousin Jon, a smirk on his face as he leaned over the back of the settee that Bran was seated on. 

“Hi, Jon,” greeted Bran in his usual bright tone, meanwhile the two older men acknowledged each other with a quick head nod. After a beat, Jon’s eyes found the plate piled with cookies.

“Did you bake these, Bran?” Bran nodded proudly.

“Oh, heck yeah,” muttered Jon, swinging around the sofa to sit next to his cousin and grab a cookie for himself. “Bran makes a  _ wicked _ snickerdoodle, just so you know,” he said to Theon.

“I’m gathering that,” replied Theon, his mouth full.

Suddenly, Bran’s and Jon’s faces both darkened a hair. Theon was about to ask what the horrid smell was that had just filled his nostrils, but he looked up and discovered the source for himself: Ramsay had slinked over to their corner of the room, presumably to pay his respects to the prince. What the man lacked in knowledge of proper hair hygiene he had clearly tried to make up for with the world’s cheapest body spray applied with the world’s heaviest hand. 

“Good afternoon, Your Royal Highness,” he greeted Bran with an exaggerated bow.

“Hello,” Bran replied flatly.

“Hello, Snow,” said Ramsay to Jon. Theon could practically hear the venom dripping from his voice as he emphasized Jon’s surname. He’d gone to university with plenty of men like Ramsay: wealthy pricks with giant chips on their shoulders. The kind of self-satisfied ass who could only win by punching down.

“Are you a Snow, too, then?” interjected Theon, his voice innocent.

Ramsay turned his icy stare on him. “And who are  _ you _ who dares to address me?” 

“Jaime Sand,” answered Theon, raising himself up and plastering a smile on. He stuck his hand out for a shake, knowing such a casual greeting would rankle the small man further. Ramsay stared at it with a sneer so withering it would put Mr. Poole to shame.

“ _ You _ ,” Ramsay continued, eyeing Theon’s attire contemptuously, “will address me properly as  _ Lord Bolt— _ ”

“Lord Bolton, are you harassing my family  _ and _ their guest?”

Appearing behind Ramsay was Sansa, as beautiful and as intimidating as ever. She wore a simple cocktail dress of a deep peacock blue that perfectly complemented her auburn hair, which she’d pulled into a low bun. Even in her modest black heels, she easily towered over Ramsay, who had begun spluttering platitudes at her.

“Your Royal Highness—I was simply trying to learn the identity of this very  _ rude _ young man—”

“It seems the only one being rude here is you, my lord.” And she flashed him a smile so cool that Theon actually shivered.

“Forgive me, Your Highness—” 

“Why do you remain when your presence here is no longer wanted?” she interrupted, and if looks could kill, Ramsay’s funeral would have been three days ago. Indignant, Ramsay gave the bottom of his vest a tug, fixed the group with one last withering glare, before slinking off with a muttered, “ _ Well I never _ .”

When he was at last gone and Theon could once again breath through his nose, the three family members all turned to each other and in unison made a gagging gesture, before erupting into laughter. This was clearly an old joke and for the briefest of moments, Theon wished he could be a part of it.

“I have to return to my hobnobbing duties,” Sansa said, after their laughter had settled. 

“Thanks for the rescue, Sans,” Jon joked, giving his cousin a light salute.

“Anytime,” she said, leaning over to give Bran a kiss on the top of his head. “Save me a cookie, alright?”

She made to leave, but paused ever so briefly at Theon’s elbow, delicately tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Goodbye, Jaime.” And then she was gone, taking Theon’s breath with her.

* * *

Theon’s dirt digging expedition continued but, frustratingly, it yielded little results. Maybe Robb truly had been the black sheep of the family and with him out of the picture, there was no delicious gossip to be had. There had been rumors, of course, of Sansa’s reluctance to take the crown but it was the firm position of the Royal Family’s press secretary that Sansa would make good on the promise that her brother had failed to keep.

Still, though, there had to be  _ some _ kernel of truth to the rumors, and Theon had resolved to get to the bottom of it, which is what lead him to be wandering Winterfell on what was supposed to be his lunch break. As was always the case, he wasn’t exactly sure what it was he was looking for, but, when he heard soft piano music floating out of one of the castle’s many rooms, he figured he must be on the right track.

And indeed he was, for as he peeked around the corner of a half-pulled pocket door, he successfully traced the source of the music to none other than Sansa Stark herself.

Instruments of all varieties lined the walls of the room: some decorative, some functional,  _ all _ of them featuring more bizarre wolf motifs. Exactly how expensive was it to have a violin with a head carved out in the shape of a wolf? Once again, the commitment to a theme was humbling.

Seated at the surprisingly wolf-less piano in the center of the room was Sansa, her eyes lowered in careful concentration as she plucked out the notes to a tune Theon didn’t know. Maybe it was an old Northern carol? For a while, he just watched her in quiet appreciation, before he remembered that he was definitely working on this definitely work-related assignment and pulled out his phone to snap a photo of her.

Unfortunately, his elbow caught the side of the pocket door he was supposed to be hiding behind, causing it to rattle in its casing. The music stopped mid-movement as the princess’ eyes darted up to see the cause of the noise, and found a wholly embarrassed and extremely sheepish Theon.

“Didn’t realize I had an audience,” she said, closing the cover down on the keys. She looked at him with those bright eyes of hers and Theon swore there was just a touch of warmth swimming around in their great depths..

“Your Grace—Your Highness, that is—I’m so sorry—” And here he was again, apologies spilling out left and right. Was he doomed to forever be an absolute mess around her?

Sansa, of course, was her usual collected self as she slid out from behind the piano and walked towards him, a pale hand gliding along the glossy black surface of the great instrument. Her outfit of choice today was a soft, over-sized sweater, the volume of which was balanced by a pair of slim, dark jeans and black leather flats. Her hair was down, too, like a coppery curtain framing her face. It was the most casual he’d seen her since their first fateful meeting at the taxi stand, and because of that it somehow felt more intimate, as if her guard might be a little lower than it normally was. He thought of their impromptu archery lesson, and how he’d been close enough to see the faint freckles on her skin. He tried to fight the flush that rose to his cheeks.

“I hope you’re not on the hunt for my brother—he’s our family’s undefeated hide and seek champion,” she joked, her usual coy smile dancing on her lips.

“No,” Theon answered. “We’re on a break, I was just—trying to get my bearings in this place.”  _ Wish I could get my bearings around you _ , he wanted to say. He stuffed the thought away.

She regarded him for a moment with those deep but totally unreadable eyes and briefly Theon worried that maybe she had the power to read thoughts.

“I wanted to… thank you,” she said at last. Theon noticed her hand was tight on the edge of the piano. “For being so nice to Bran.”

Theon shook his head. “He’s a good kid,” he demurred, before adding with a small laugh. “When he wants to be.”

“You’re the first tutor he hasn’t sent running and screaming out of here, so you must be doing something right.” Her smile warmed a degree. “I just wanted you to know that—that my family appreciates the kindness you’ve shown him. He’s—” she stuttered, her eyes dropping to her feet briefly. “It’s been hard on him, since my father died. And with Robb gone and me not being here as much… This time of year is just—” she stopped, struggling for the words. Theon had not seen her like this before.

“I understand,” he said quietly. “I was about his age when I lost my parents. The holidays are always… rough.”

Her eyebrows knitted together. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks,” he said, nervously fingering the edge of his sweater. 

“So, you knew both your parents?” she asked, before realizing the intrusiveness of her question. “Sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“It’s alright,” Theon said quickly, the wave of guilt for his charade crashing over him once again. “They were just kids—you know: young, dumb, and in love.” He smiled to try and ease the tension. That part was true, at least: his parents had gotten married young—maybe too young, the way Uncle Euron told it—and then had Yara and him in quick succession. Being young parents, they were often flying by the seat of their pants. Theon never remembered them as “bad” parents, just two people trying to figure it out as they went along.

“It must have been very hard, losing them both,” Sansa said sincerely.

“It was,” Theon admitted, perhaps for the first time to someone outside of his family. “But, my uncle stepped in to raise me. That helped.” Sansa nodded quietly and briefly, the silence hung between them. “Seems like the whole country agrees that your father’s death is quite the loss,” Theon said at last, trying to pivot the conversation away from himself.

A portrait of the late king hung over the mantel in the room, grand and austere, serious eyes looking out from under dark eyebrows. Sansa looked up at it.

“He was a good man,” she said simply. “It was duty and honor above everything else.”

“Sounds like the qualities of a good king, but maybe not the best father,” Theon offered. Sansa turned her gaze to him and Theon wondered if maybe he’d made a step too far. If he did, she gave nothing away.

“He was a just and fair ruler,” she continued, her eyes not moving from Theon. “He only ever wanted the best for his country and his people.” 

“I’m sure his loss has left quite the hole for everyone,” he said delicately.

“They will be difficult shoes to fill, that’s for sure,” Sansa replied, a smile coming back to her face.

“Are you nervous?” Theon sweated a bit at the directness of his own question, but Sansa was stalwart as ever, her eyes narrowing just a fraction.

“Why should I be nervous?” was her return volley. Theon tried his best to meet it.

“It’s just—some of the magazines—they say you might not want to give up your…lifestyle.” 

“My lifestyle? And what lifestyle is that, exactly?” She was trying to push him on to the defensive, and Theon was struggling to hold his ground.

“You know,” he began, his voice uncertain. “They say you have a bit of a… reputation.” He could practically feel the corner he’d backed himself into.

“For what? Being a party-girl and a playboy?” she asked, unafraid to say the words.

“I suppose.”

“And what do you think I am?” The question was blunt, but her tone had shifted into something else, something softer. Her blue eyes—bright and deep and churning, like the ocean—were questioning him, but it wasn’t the usual challenge he saw contained in their depths, as if she were asking him to look at her,  _ truly _ look at her, and reveal what he saw. Suddenly, he realized that during the course of their conversation, they’d drifted toward one another. Once again, he smelled lavender.

Theon opened his mouth to answer, but the gods clearly had other designs as, like fucking clockwork, Mr. Poole appeared in the doorway. Instinctively, Theon took a few steps away from Sansa, making an attempt at restoring an image of propriety, but knowing it probably only made him look more guilty. 

“Apologies for the intrusion, Your Highness,” the steward apologized with a proper bow. “Your mother the queen begs a word with you.”

“Of course,” Sansa replied, pushing herself off the piano. “I’m right behind you.” Another bow and the old man was gone. The princess made to follow him.

“A pleasure talking to you, Jaime, as always,” she said, tossing a lock of auburn hair over her shoulder.

* * *

For a long while, Theon just stared at the white rectangle of his phone, his thumbs hovering immobile over the keyboard. In his estimation, he’d typed and promptly deleted roughly forty-thousand responses to Melisandre’s check-in email. How was the assignment going, exactly? Well, he had no solid leads, no juicy snippets of gossip—unless, of course, one counted the discovery of Prince Bran’s budding baking career. Jon had been right on that account: Bran’s snickerdoodles were fucking  _ amazing _ .

But, Theon surely doubted that such domestic fare was the type of information Melisandre was looking to include in her exclusive, ground-breaking expose on the Royal Family of the North. He let out a sigh before his thumbs began tapping away.

_ Still digging—need a bit more time to work on the princess. I think we’re getting close. _

Theon paused. He’d meant to write  _ I think _ **_I’m_ ** _ getting close _ , but the slip felt… telling. Too telling. Quickly, he tapped at the delete button.

_ Still digging—there’s definitely something here. Will update when I’ve gotten something concrete. _ Send.

He tossed the phone onto his bed and rubbed at his forehead with his hand.  _ Get a fucking grip, Greyjoy _ , he scolded himself. He needed to focus, to pull himself together. This was an assignment, and a career-changing one at that and he was on the verge of imploding it all. And for what? Some vague flirtation, if that’s what this was even was?

_ She’s probably just messing with you _ , he told himself depreciatingly.  _ She can tell how un-buttoned you get around her. It’s probably amusing _ .

Reluctantly, her words replayed in his mind:  _ What do you think I am? _ The look in her eyes had been so…

Theon clenched his fists. “Cracker fucking jack,” he muttered under his breath, and went to retrieve his phone, scrolling for Yara’s number.

* * *

Theon had been torn about accepting Bran’s invitation to his family’s Tree Decorating Party: on one hand, it certainly provided an opportunity for his continued fact-finding mission as he rubbed elbows with the nobility again. But, on the other hand, he was quickly finding it impossible to keep a… professional perspective on all his interactions. Every enthusiastic grin, every shared joke—the duplicity of it all was eating at him. 

But on the other,  _ other  _ hand… he stole a look at Sansa Stark, who stood by the Christmas tree with her mother, laughing before taking a sip of champagne. Tonight, she wore her fiery waves swept over one shoulder, a statement earring dangling from the opposite earlobe. The room was filled with festively-dressed lords and ladies and dukes and whatever, but Sansa stood out among them, like a jewel dropped in the snow.

Sighing, Theon stared down into his own champagne flute. Was there even any point in telling himself to get his shit together? He was clearly a lost cause. He took a fortifying swig of alcohol.

“—but  _ I _ got the top score.” Bran was regaling his cousin with his tale of victory against Jaime Sand in the noted battle arena of Super Smash Bros. The three boys all sat clustered together on plush, velvet chairs; Bran with sparkling apple juice, and Jon and Theon with something a bit stronger. As Jon gave Bran a congratulatory clap on the shoulder, Theon finished off his drink. Blessedly, a member of the household staff appeared at his elbow with a fresh flute, which he took with enthusiastic thanks.

The tinkling of crystal chirped above the room’s polite conversations and all eyes turned to Queen Catelyn, who stood before the great tree, a glass in her hand and a warm smile on her face.

“My dear, honoured guests,” she began, surveying the room’s inhabitants. “I am so grateful to each one of you for attending our yearly tradition—the gathering of family was always so important to our late king, especially during the holiday season. Even though some of our loved ones may be far away—” at this, the Queen’s voice wavered a bit, “—I am so glad to have you all here.” She lifted her glass in a toast. “To family.”

“To family,” the room echoed back, and all took a drink.

When Theon lowered his glass, his gaze drifted over to Sansa, who stood by the queen. A little half-smile tugged at her lips when their eyes met, which he returned as he fought to keep the fluttering in his stomach under wraps.

As the polite murmurings of the guests filled the room once again, a set of doors opened and through them strode a wispy young woman with cascading curls of mahogany hair. Even if she hadn’t have been a latecomer, she would still have been impossible to miss, with her neck and wrists covered in sparkling designer jewelry. In fact, Theon noticed, her entire look was comprised of expensive labels, from her sapphire blue Prada cocktail dress to her studded Valentino pumps. “So sorry I’m late!” she called brightly as she walked toward the queen, who welcomed her with open arms. 

“Lady Margaery,” the queen greeted the young woman as she embraced her. “I’m so glad you could join us.” 

“I was just  _ ecstatic _ to receive your invitation, dear Queen Mother,” bubbled the Lady Margaery as she affectionately clasped Queen Catelyn’s hands. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you all, I was beginning to miss you terribly.” She turned her chocolate eyes to Sansa, who had been standing quietly to the side. “Surely you have a warm hello for me, sweet Sansa.”

“Of course,” Sansa said, leaning in embrace the other woman, who placed a friendly kiss on the princess’ cheek. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

Watching the scene play out before him clicked everything into place. Theon recognized the woman from his image searches on the Royal Family—she was Lady Margaery Tyrell from the warm kingdom of Highgarden, noted socialite, fashion influencer, and on-again/off-again girlfriend of Sansa Stark. 

“Yikes,” muttered Jon, exchanging a look with Bran as he took a drink from his glass.

“Bad break-up?” whispered Theon, trying not to sound  _ too _ eager for the details.

“It was a few years ago now, but…” he trailed off, clearly going back to the memory in his mind. He grimaced. “Yeah, you could probably say it was bad.”

Theon stole another glance at Margaery, who had drifted off to chat with other guests. She certainly had interesting timing, showing up just before her ex-girlfriend’s coronation. Perhaps this was a thread that was worth tugging on?

To his left, Theon could just barely hear a tense conversation beginning between the queen and her daughter. He dropped his eyes to the floor as he listened intently.

“A little warning next time would be appreciated, Mother,” Sansa was saying through what Theon could only assume was a thin smile. 

“I only thought it might be nice to have Margaery join us for the holidays,” replied the queen, barely innocent. “The two of you used to get on so well.”

“Yes, we used to get on  _ splendidly _ .” Theon could hear the sarcasm dripping from Sansa’s voice.

“Margaery has always been a good influence on you, Sansa and besides—there might come a day when you’ll be glad to have someone like her at your side.”

Theon looked up at the pair just in time to see Sansa take a lengthy drink of her champagne.

So, that was it then? Was the queen trying to not so subtlety encourage Sansa towards marriage? Even to someone as politically inexperienced as Theon, it made sense: in less than a year, the North had experienced the unexpected death of a king and the sudden abdication by the man everyone expected to step up and assume his responsibilities, leaving the burden of power squarely in the hands of a woman who, to the outside world, was more interested in red carpets than matters of state. A marriage would surely help to project an image of stability and put the anxieties of certain government members at ease. 

Again, Theon glanced over to Margaery, who was making her way back over to the queen and princess, a small red box in her hand. 

“I almost forgot,” she trilled sweetly, opening the box and pulling out a gilded, heart shaped tree ornament. “My contribution to this year’s tree. In honor of our beloved king and also to celebrate our new queen.”

Queen Catelyn smiled, throwing a pointed look at her daughter. “How thoughtful of you, Lady Margaery.”

“Will you help me hang it, Sansa?” Margaery held the ornament out to Sansa, almost like bait, as she bit back a not-so-innocent smile. When Sansa reached out for the thing, Margaery lifted it just out of her grasp. “Be careful you don’t break it,” she cautioned coyly.

Theon really had to hand it to himself—here he was, thinking that he lived on a timeline where, while fellow local goddesses like Margaery were throwing themselves at Sansa, that he still had some sort of shot with her. Margaery had things like titles and fancy castles and designer pumps and classically proportioned features—in what universe could Theon possibly hope to compete with that? He’d mocked greasy-haired Ramsay Bolton for shooting his shot, meanwhile he was living in his own upside-down fantasy world where tall and elegant princesses might profess their undying love to a dumpy, perpetually broke, fluff-piece janitor.

_ Don’t forget you’re also  _ **_lying_ ** _ to her and her entire family _ , the voice in his head reminded him eagerly. Eventually, they would all discover that the guy who was masquerading as Jaime Sand was, in fact, Theon Greyjoy, and then what? Would they all just shake hands and have a good laugh over it? Maybe invite him along for their summer holiday?  _ Gods, Greyjoy, you really are a prize idiot _ . He took another drink of his champagne, but in truth, he needed a fucking lake of the stuff to drown his sorrows in.

“I haven’t had a chance to say hello to my favorite prince yet.” Margaery slid into the chair opposite Theon, as she greeted Bran warmly. 

“Happy Christmas, Margaery,” Bran said politely, shooting a look at Jon.

“Yeah, nice to see you again, Margaery,” piped in Jon, absently scratching at the stubble on his cheek.

“It’s nice to be seen,” she said happily. Seeing her up close, Theon noticed how positively fox-like her features were. When her lips pulled up into a small simper, it only magnified the effect. Eventually, Margaery turned her eyes to him.

“Now, here’s a face I don’t recognize.” And she extended a delicate hand. “I’m Lady Margaery, of House Tyrell.”

“Jaime Sand,” Theon said, trying to summon a friendly smile as he took her hand. “I’m the prince’s tutor.”

“A Sand!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together. “I do so love Dorne—our family would often holiday at Starfall in the winter.”

“Oh… very nice,” Theon said awkwardly, hoping it wasn’t obvious that he had absolutely no idea where that was beyond vaguely “in Dorne.”

“What part of Dorne are you from?” she asked, eyes bright.

“Ah, Sunspear,” he said automatically.

“Such a  _ beautiful _ city. The architecture is just divine. What part of the city do you hail from?”

_ Shit _ .

“We—um—we moved around quite a bit when I was a kid,” he covered, nervously spinning his glass in his hands. “But I call King’s Landing home now.”

Theon thought he saw Margaery’s eyebrow raise just a millimeter, but before she could press further, Sansa appeared behind her.

“This one doesn’t have a title, so your efforts are wasted here, Margaery,” she said coolly. Theon forced out a chuckle, trying to pretend that the blow didn’t sting.

“You still think so lowly of me, Sansa,” Margaery giggled, lightly patting the other woman’s hand.

“What are some of your holiday traditions, Jaime?” asked Sansa, drawing her hand out from under Margaery’s.

“Well,” Theon began, drawing a breath. “We usually light a candle for my parents, and we try to cook a meal together.”

“Try?” Sansa asked curiously.

“Yeah,” he rubbed at the back of his neck. “Usually too much alcohol for it to come together properly.”

A laugh escaped the princess and Theon tried to ignore the warmth it brought to his chest.

“Sansa? Bran?” came the queen’s voice. “Will you help me hang the last ornament?” In her hands, she held a large decoration in the shape of what appeared to be an acorn. She raised it up for everyone to see.

“The king was always fond of making handmade gifts,” she said, addressing her guests. “After his passing, I found this among his things: his last gift for me.” Her blue eyes were misty like the sea.

In his mind, Theon tried to reconcile the royal portrait of stoic King Eddard with the image of a man who spent his free time hand-carving gifts for his family at Christmas. It seemed about as incongruous as the idea of Theon Greyjoy and Sansa Stark.

* * *

“You’re late,” Theon scolded his young pupil, tapping his watch as Bran shuffled into the room nonchalantly. Damn—Theon wondered if maybe he had missed his calling as a teacher, this all was starting to come so naturally to him. Maybe if writing didn’t work out, he could use this as a Plan B, you know, if he didn’t get arrested for impersonating a royal tutor first.

Bran closed the door behind him. “No, I’m not.” Theon raised an eyebrow. Okay, maybe he’d spoke too soon.

“It’s time to get busy, mate,” Theon continued. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover—”

“We’re not studying today,” Bran interrupted, looking particularly satisfied with himself.

“Alright, I’ll bite,” Theon acquiesced, closing the open book he had in his lap. “What are we doing today?”

A smug grin had settled on to Bran’s face. “We’re going to bake today.” Alright, clearly Theon had gotten  _ too _ casual with the kid lately. It was time to reinforce some—

“And if we don’t,” Bran continued, “I’ll tell everyone who you really are,  _ Theon Greyjoy _ .”

Hearing his actual name out of Bran was like plunging his heart into a vat of icy water. Theon struggled to hold on to his poker face. “I—I don’t think I know—”

“You’re a reporter,” Bran told him, point blank. “I looked you up on the internet—which is  _ very _ easy, by the way.” The kid wasn’t wrong. The fact that no one had thought to casually Google the man that was supervising their child was disconcerting at best.

Theon eyed him for a moment. There was clearly nothing to be won by arguing with the kid, but—

“You haven’t told anyone,” Theon guessed, rightly. Bran nodded. “Why?”

“Because,” Bran began, looking directly at Theon, clearly wanting his full understanding. “You’re obviously here to write a story about my sister and you  _ are _ going to write about her. The  _ real _ her. I see what people say about Sansa online and you’re going to correct all their… inaccuracies.”

“My job is to tell the truth about your sister,” Theon said slowly, but Bran seemed unbothered.

“You’ve already gotten to know her—and you know what people say isn’t true. Besides,” and Bran cracked a knowing grin, “I don’t think your opinion of her is all that critical.”

Well, he wasn’t exactly wrong there. For a moment, Theon chewed on his lip. Bran certainly had him in a corner, but perhaps this wasn’t all bad. Theon clearly wasn’t getting very far on his own efforts, so with Bran as his inside man, well, this could certainly open doors that had previously been closed to him. And Theon had to admit, it was a bit of a relief to be able to drop the charade, at least around Bran. And if Bran hadn’t been devastated by his deception, maybe that meant that others wouldn’t be either.

“Alright,” Theon said with an affirming nod. “You’ve got yourself a deal. To the kitchens, then?”

It shouldn’t have surprised Theon that a boy of Bran’s age knew his way so thoroughly around a kitchen, and yet, here he was, expertly pouring ingredients together into a large mixing bowl. At one point, Theon had suggested the use of a measuring cup, but the kid had waved him off, insisting he could do it by sight. Judging by Bran’s previous successes, Theon didn’t see it fit to argue.

“So, what exactly is going on between your sister and the Lady Margaery?” asked Theon, as he passed over the whisk that Bran was motioning for.

“Guess I’m not surprised that’s your first question,” grinned Bran, taking the utensil from him.

“If I’m going to paint an accurate portrait of your sister, I need the whole story,” replied Theon in a tone that  _ almost _ convinced even himself.

Bran gave another of his signature little shrugs. “I don’t know  _ exactly _ what happened—Margaery was always really friendly with the whole lot of us, even me and Robb. She was at the castle all the time, and came along on a lot of our holidays. I think it was pretty serious between her and Sansa.” He looked around with his round, dark eyes before turning them up to Theon. “Jon even told me that she had a ring for her.”

Gods, that  _ was  _ serious. “So what happened?”

“Dunno. They had a big fight and then she stopped coming around.” Theon made a mental note—this was definitely a thread worth tugging on. “But I guess she and my mum have still been talking, ‘cause Margaery is helping her with the big event for the orphanage.”

Right, the charity benefit for Winterstown’s local orphanage. It was shaping up to be quite the to-do—he’d overheard Mr. Poole fussing over the preparations for it all week. There would be plenty of press and photo ops which, judging by what he knew of Margaery Tyrell, was definitely an event she’d be front and center at, especially if she was trying to rehabilitate her image for Sansa.

“Alright, second question,” continued Theon. “People are saying your sister doesn’t want to take the throne—d’you reckon that’s true?”

“I—I don’t know,” Bran said, looking down at the bowl in his hands. “Sansa just wants to help people, but…” he trailed off and a pang of guilt rang through Theon. He’d pushed too far.

“Bran, I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay,” he said quickly, handing the bowl to Theon. “Pour this into that big mixing bowl over there?”

Theon did as his chef asked, and when he turned back to Bran, his dark eyes seemed to have a sheen of wet to them. “It’s just,” he began, his hand still tight on the whisk in his hand. “Everything’s changed since Dad died. And with Robb leaving, and my mum’s always so  _ sad _ —” his words cut off as his voice wavered.

Theon placed a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay, mate.” Bran turned his eyes back up to him. “Things change and… it sucks. It just really  _ sucks _ . And grief—that sucks, too.” He paused for a moment, trying to organize his thoughts into something slightly more coherent. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that things will get better. They’ll be different, but they’ll get better. And it’s okay that they’re not okay right now.” He paused again and looked at the kid. “Does that make sense.”

A lop-sided smirk found its way to Bran’s face and he gave a little nod. “Yeah, I think so.”

Theon nodded back. “Cool.” After a moment, he looked around at the assorted baking paraphernalia and asked, “What are we making anyway?”

“Lemon bars,” answered Bran. “They’re Sansa’s favorite, just so you know.”

Theon laughed. “I don’t know if your sister’s dessert preferences are what’s gonna make the cut in my piece.”

Bran returned his attention to his whisking. “Oh, I’m not telling you that for the article.”

* * *

The morning of the benefit had turned Winterfell into an absolute hive of activity, with every member of the household staff busying themselves with preparations for the event. Theon, for his part, tried his best to keep out of the way, especially of Mr. Poole, who was in rare form as he hissed orders at this poor maid or that one. Theon breathed a small sigh of relief when Bran came to find him and invite him out to enjoy the festivities. 

The front courtyard of the castle had been transformed into a winter carnival, complete with games of skill and chance as well as stands with hot drinks and Christmas-themed treats. As Theon pushed his ward along, they were surrounded by a variety of nobles, frolicking orphans, and members of the press. At one point, they came around a corner, and Theon saw Lady Margaery surrounded by a small gaggle of them, cameras flashing, and microphones out. She made a light joke and chuckles erupted from the entire press pool.

As she flashed a pearly white smile, it was hard to deny that she was certainly in her element. Queen Catelyn’s words from the other night came back to him:  _ One day you might be glad to have someone like that at your side _ . Margaery’s comfort in the middle of a swarm of reporters was a far-cry from Sansa, who tried to desperately dodge the spotlight at every turn. Surely the queen saw her daughter’s lack of political finesse and sought a potential spouse that might make up what Sansa lacked?

After Bran and Theon had properly gorged themselves on hot chocolate and gingerbread cookies (definitely not as good as the prince’s, Theon noticed), they headed towards the makeshift stage that had been set up on the steps of Winterfell. A sizable crowd of noble guests and reporters had already collected around it when the two approached, all waiting for some words from the queen.

At last, Queen Catelyn strode out from behind a curtain and took the stage, regal as ever in a coat of dark grey fur, a sparkling brooch of the Stark house sigil fastened to her chest. She took her place in front of the microphone, hands clasped diplomatically in front of her.

“Welcome, everyone, to Winterfell’s annual winter carnival, benefitting the Winterstown Orphanage. I am always so heartened by the warm generosity of our donors who seem to out-do themselves every year.” A smile came across her features as she looked out at the assembled crowd, but, as always, it was tinted with a bittersweet sadness. “Of course, it was always tradition that our King Eddard should make the opening remarks, so, in his stead, that honor will pass to our daughter and your soon to be queen, Sansa Stark.” Her hand swept toward the side of the stage where, presumably, Sansa would be— _ should _ be—entering from, but the queen only indicated towards empty space.

The queen’s smile faltered. “Apologies, everyone. I’m sure the princess is—”

“Is it true then that the princess doesn’t want to take the throne?” A reporter’s voice cut out across the crowd, and immediately others joined her.

“Are the rumors of Sansa’s abdication true?”

“Who will rule if Sansa abdicates?”

As the queen struggled to perform damage control, Theon cast a worried look down at Bran, who let out a small sigh. “Let’s go down this way,” he instructed Theon, pointing to a path off to the side. “I think I know where she might be.”

Following Bran’s directions, they alighted upon a small, snowy yard filled with children from the orphanage, all laughing and frolicking about. At the center of the wholesome scene, impossible to miss with her fiery hair, was none other than Sansa Stark, assisting with the final touches of a freshly built snowman. When he was complete, Sansa stood off to the side, clicking her heels together and standing at attention, while the children lined up at the opposite side of the yard, all with plenty of snowballs in hand.

“Alright, Ser Snowman,” she called out, her voice loud and boisterous. “You have been found guilty of the  _ worst _ crimes: present-stealing and a general lack of Christmas cheer. Your sentence is  _ death by snowball _ .” She turned to the assembled children. “Ready?” she asked and was met with a chorus of cheers. “ _ Fire!”  _ And at that, the children all loosed their snowballs, not at the snowman, but at Sansa herself. The shock of it caused her to erupt in laughter as she scrambled to make her own ammunition to toss back at her betrayers.

It was Sansa Stark as Theon had never seen her: gone was the polished and composed crown princess, replaced by a woman more carefree. Seven hells, Theon didn’t even know she was capable of being this…  _ silly _ . He grinned in spite of himself.

A particularly well-aimed snowball caught Sansa fully in the chest and a delighted laugh rang out from Bran, garnering the princess’s attention. A full smile broke out across her face when she caught sight of them. She ran over to the pair, brushing snow from the wool of her coat. Her cheeks were flushed and rosy, and her eyes practically sparkled with laughter. In truth, she looked absolutely beautiful.

“Come to have a laugh at me?” she asked them. She was breathless.

“Came to  _ find _ you,” Bran explained, almost sounding like the older sibling. “You missed the opening ceremony. Mum’s definitely pissed.”

Some of the sparkle faded out of Sansa’s eyes. “Mum will recover, I’m sure,” she replied, almost defiantly, absently brushing at her coat again. This was now the second public appearance that Sansa had… opted out of. Theon made another mental note and tucked it away.

“Seems like you got your ass handed to you out there,” he teased.

She smirked at him. “Care to try your luck against them, Sand? See if you’re as good with a snowball as you are a bow?” 

He laughed, prepared to make his retort, but the joy went out of Sansa’s face as she caught sight of something in the distance. Theon and Bran both looked over their shoulders and immediately spied the bright auburn hair of the queen, who was cutting a brisk path directly towards them.

“You two ought to get on,” she told them. “You won’t want to be caught in the crossfire.” She gave Bran a quick smile and ruffled his hair before walking out to meet her fate with the queen. Without protest, Theon spun Bran around quickly made off in the other direction.

* * *

“Now, what other themes can we take from  _ The Sailor and His Sea _ ? There’s perseverance in the face of impossible odds, but one could also argue that the sailor is seeking  _ revenge _ for—” 

Abruptly, Theon halted his lecture upon turning around and discovering that his pupil had dropped his head on to his open book in unmitigated boredom. Theon sighed.

“Bran, come on—I know you didn’t much care for the book, but—”

“ _ But _ ,” Bran interrupted, lifting his head. “It’s three days until Christmas, Theon—” 

“Oi, remember our agreement?” warned Theon. “You have to still call me ‘Jaime,’  _ especially _ when we’re in the castle.”

Bran sighed. “It’s three days until Christmas,  _ Jaime _ . D’you really expect me to stay focused on schoolwork?”

The kid had a point. At his age, Theon definitely would have been wholly unable to focus on things like fractions and themes, so it felt more than a little ridiculous to expect anything different from Bran. Theon snapped his copy of  _ The Sailor and His Sea _ closed.

“Alright, you win. Let’s take a little field trip, eh?”

Bran’s eyes sparkled like onyx in sunlight. “Really?”

“Yeah, grab your coat—I’ve got an idea.”

And soon, they were bundled up and out in the bright sunshine and the brisk winter air. The fresh snow crunched lightly beneath Theon’s feet as he walked along, pulling a toboggan behind him containing one very excited and very curious Bran Stark.

“Have you really never done this before?” Theon asked over his shoulder as he approached the sloping meadow. 

“You’ve met my mother, right? Red hair? Horrendously overprotective?” called back Bran.

Fair enough, but still, what a tragedy. During their youth in Pyke, sledding hadn’t just been a winter pastime for him and Yara, it’d practically been a way of life. Was there anything more thrilling than waking up to everything being covered in snow? They’d shove down some breakfast as quick as they could before Yara would go dig the sled out of the garage, their mother struggling to get a hat and coat on them before they took off with all the other neighborhood kids.

With some effort, Theon finally reached the summit, pulling Bran into place before squatting down next to him. The boy was staring down the hill, wide-eyed. Half the thrill of sledding on the hard snow of the Iron Islands was the risk of injury or death it brought with it, but here on the soft powder of the North was certainly a better place for a beginner. Theon put a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“I know we came out here, mate, but you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“I’m—I’m scared,” admitted Bran, before finally turning his gaze to Theon. “But, I still wanna give it a go.” His eyes were resolute, so Theon gave him a nod, before taking his seat on the back of the toboggan.

“Hold on tight, but don’t be afraid to bail out, alright?” Bran gave him a thumbs up, so Theon tucked his feet onto the front of the wooden contraption, took the reins in one hand, and pushed off with the other.

At first, their progress down into the white bowl was slow, but steadily, they gained speed, until the icy breeze was blowing through Theon’s hair. Bran let out an excited  _ whoop _ as they flew along, and Theon laughed in spite of himself. He had to admit, it was almost…  _ freeing _ to be out in the open air, flying down a hill, absolutely zero cares in the world. He hadn’t felt like this in a long, long time and he fucking missed it.

But all those light and airy feelings evaporated in a flash. The toboggan had slipped onto uneven ground and Theon quickly found himself struggling to maintain control of their wooden vehicle. A hump in the snow came up too fast—Theon tried to swerve around it, but he was off-balance and over-corrected, and before he knew it, they were getting thrown from the toboggan and into the snow.

With effort, Theon pushed himself up, wiping at the snow on his face with the back of his hand. Immediately, he searched for his companion and spotted him, just a few feet off, lying still in the snow. Theon’s heart stopped.

“ _ Bran! _ ” he yelled, scrambling over to the boy. He put a hand on his shoulder, and rolled him on to his back—gods, his pale face—and then—wait, was the kid  _ smiling _ ?

“Got ya,” he said, opening one eye to look at Theon.

“You actual  _ shit _ ,” Theon swore, shoving the boy’s shoulder as his heart finally started working again.

His relief was short-lived, as he felt a cold, wet slap to his cheek. He turned and met the gaze of a grinning Sansa, who had dismounted her horse and was already making a second snowball to pelt him with.

“Sansa!” called out Bran excitedly at the sight of his sister.

“Oh, you’re fucking  _ toast _ ,” laughed Theon, scooping up his own ammo from the ground.

And a moment later, the air was full of snow and laughter and shrieks of delight and surprise as the trio engaged in snowball warfare. From his spot on the ground, Bran caught Theon’s shoulder with a wickedly fast curveball, meanwhile Theon tried ( _ tried _ definitely being the operative word) to dodge a shot from Sansa, but not before he managed to score a well-aimed hit to her knee. Laughing, Sansa hastily bent over to scoop up a fresh round, but her foot hit a hidden slick spot. She shot her hands out to steady herself but only managed to catch the front of Theon’s coat, knocking him off his balance as well and sending them both into the white drift.

From the flat of his back, Theon looked up at Sansa, who’s fall he had broken and now laid squarely on his chest. With the sun behind her, her hair was like a burning halo and frankly, she looked damn near  _ angelic _ . A soft smile crept onto Theon’s face and she returned it, her cheeks flushed from the snowball fight and maybe something else. And, as Theon lost himself in the blue paradise of her eyes—were there flecks of green in them?—their laughter quietly ebbed away.

Until, for the second time that afternoon, Theon caught a snowball fully in the face and the moment— _ this  _ moment, with Sansa—came to an end. 

“Hey!” called Bran, with a laugh. “Stop fraternizing with the enemy!”

Theon couldn’t help but chuckle, grabbing a fistful of snow and tossing it in the kid’s face. But, as he and Sansa helped each other up, he noticed off in the distance—wait, there was  _ no  _ way. Theon squinted against the sun. Was that Margaery and Ramsay fucking Bolton taking a horse-drawn sleigh ride together? Shit, were they watching—?

“Come on,” said Sansa, still a bit breathless as she lifted her brother on to her horse. “We could probably stand a change into dry clothes.”

Throwing one last look over his shoulder, Theon followed the royal siblings back towards Winterfell.

When they returned, they were greeted by a not-so-welcoming welcome party, consisting of Mr. Poole and Queen Catelyn, who stood waiting for them on the staircase, arms crossed, faces sour.

“Mr. Poole tells me that he saw you and my son riding a toboggan,” began the queen, coming down the stairs, a terrifying and imposing figure. “Is that true, Mr. Sand?”

Theon felt a cold sweat break out over his body. Is this what would ultimately get him sacked? Not the reveal of his true identity as a reporter, but the unspeakable crime of taking a kid out for some fun and sport over the winter holiday?

“Your Grace, I can explain—”

“Mother,  _ please _ —”

“Enough,” said the queen with a raise of her hand, silencing both Theon’s and Sansa’s protests. “It’s true, I’ve been quite… protective of Bran over the years, but…” and she surveyed the trio before her, something turning in her eyes. “It’s also true that I haven’t seen such a smile on his face since I can’t remember when, so,” and at this, her mouth twisted a bit. “It seems I owe you a bit of gratitude, Jaime.”

Theon suppressed a smile and at his left, he felt Sansa’s elbow in his ribs.

Queen Catelyn turned to go, making her way back up the stairs. However, she paused briefly. “And in the future, you may consider inviting your queen on your next adventure. I was  _ quite _ the sledding champion in my day.”

“Wouldn’t dream of going without you again, Your Grace,” promised Theon.

* * *

It was strange: each time Theon thought that perhaps he finally had a handle on exactly who the princess was, she would surprise him with some new facet of her personality, whether it was her ability to shed her royal persona and have a lark with the local orphans or her thoroughly  _ mean _ throwing arm. Every single time he thought he might be getting close to Sansa, the  _ real _ Sansa, he’d find himself right back at square one.

But, with the calendar clicking ever closer to Christmas, his time to get to the bottom of the mystery that was Sansa Stark was slipping through his fingers. And beyond that, he still didn’t have his breaking story and it was getting harder to hold off Melisandre. Seven hells, in a few days’ time, there’d be no more holding her off and he would need to get out of Winterfell before the real Jaime Sand showed up.

So, when he caught sight of the red-haired princess heading for the stables, he felt he had literally no choice but to follow her. From around a corner, he watched as she mounted her grey mare and trotted out of the yard. There was no way for him to follow her on foot, so… He looked nervously at the remaining horses in the stable.

He’d ridden a horse. Once. That summer he’d begged Uncle Euron to send him to camp.

It had not ended well.

“No fucking time like the present,” he muttered to himself, as he threw his bag over his shoulder and went to grab a saddle.

It’d been a while since he’d gotten to hum his old mantra, but this evening, he definitely revisited it:  _ this is stupid, this is stupid, this is stupid _ ran through his mind at a thousand miles an hour as he guided the horse out of the yard. In the distance, headed for the forest surrounding Winterfell, he saw the figure of Sansa Stark and felt a small bolt of confidence as he successfully nudged the animal to follow her.

Unfortunately, the deeper he went into the forest the more his confidence felt unearned until it disappeared into the evening air completely. Through the thickness of trees (and his efforts to not make it completely obvious he was following the princess), he slowly lost sight of his mark until, like his confidence, she disappeared altogether.

_ Yep, this is completely fucking stupid _ , he thought to himself as he looked around desperately for some sign of which way he might need to go. The sun had faded into nightfall and brought a biting chill to the air. What he’d give to be back in his room at Winterfell, with a roaring fire. Theon gave the reins a light tug in an attempt to turn his mount, but he was met with resistance and (what sounded like) a very pissed off  _ neigh _ . 

“Come on, mate,” he muttered, trying his best to course correct, but his animal companion was having none of it. The more he tried to steer, the more the horse seemed to resist. And then, somewhere behind him, Theon swore he heard the snap of a twig. Startled, he jerked around to look, which in turn, startled the horse and without warning, it reared up and Theon quickly found himself deposited in the snow, watching his mount trot off into the quickly darkening wood.

Sitting up, he’d opened his mouth to call out after it, until a sound caused his blood to run so cold that for a moment, he couldn’t move at all.

Slowly turning his head, he saw its source: it had been a low, terrible snarl and indeed, no more than a yard away was a great, silvery-grey wolf. In the back of his mind, he cursed himself for thinking this place was called the Wolfswood because of the Starks’ bizarre obsession with wolves and not because it contained actual  _ wolves _ .

But that was neither here nor there, as he stared down this snarling animal, with its bared fangs and raised hackles. As he debated the next course of action, its growl deepened and it took an aggressive step forward and Theon felt his whole body go cold. 

“ _ Lady _ , to me.” He heard the voice of Sansa Stark but in his terror, he did not process it. It wasn’t until the great beast licked its fangs, turned, and trotted over to her, astride her horse, that he fully comprehended that she was even there.

“Are you alright?” she asked as the wolf took its place by her side. 

“Are—is that—” he choked—gods, when had his throat become so dry? “Is that— _ your _ wolf?”

That classic smirk of hers. “Of course. Every Stark for generations has kept a wolf. It’s a great tradition of our house.”

“You mean to tell me—you keep actual fucking wolves as pets?”

The smirk deepened. “Actual fucking wolves.”

He had to laugh. As the adrenaline dumped out of his body, Theon also felt like he might pass out.

“Come on,” she said, sliding off her to horse to come and help him up. “Let’s get you warm and then you can explain why you were following me.”

Once Sansa had collected Theon (along with his rogue horse, though, unfortunately, Theon’s pride was nowhere to be found), it was a short ride to what appeared to be a small hunting cabin set amongst the tall trees. Once inside, Sansa made quick work setting about building a fire in the hearth, which Theon eagerly warmed himself by as she went off to make them each a hot drink.

The cabin was classically decorated with a few prized sets of horns mounted to the walls, and plenty of fur and flannel to go around. In terms of furniture, the place was relatively utilitarian: in front of the fireplace sat two, plush leather chairs; on one wall was a great storage dresser; and on the other was an old, rustic wooden writing desk.

When Sansa returned with two steaming mugs, Theon gratefully took the one offered him. The warm ceramic felt heavenly in his chilled hands. He brought it up to his lips and gingerly took a sip, but as the liquid hit his tongue, he tried not to wince at the sharp bite of alcohol.

“What is that?” he asked, coughing around the aftertaste.

“It’s an old Northern drink,” replied Sansa, blowing away the steam from her cup, before adding, “Mostly whiskey.”

“Yeah, I gathered.”

“So, are you going to explain why you were following me?” asked Sansa, taking a seat opposite Theon. “Or shall I bring Lady in to question you?”

Theon let out a nervous laugh, half at the thought of coming face to face with the princess’s pet wolf again, and half at the thought of explaining his true motives to her. What could he possibly say?  _ Oh, no real reason, Princess—just trying to find some deep dark secrets about you and your family so I can break out of my dead-end job. That’s right, did I mention that I’m not really a tutor but some scum reporter? _ Yeah, that would surely go  _ great _ .

“I’m just… curious about you,” he began carefully. That was pretty true. “You’re kind of… mysterious.”

“Mysterious?” That earned a raised eyebrow and she took another sip of her drink. “That’s a new one. It’s usually ‘reserved’ or ‘frigid.’ I think I prefer ‘mysterious.’ Certainly the kindest of the options.”

“You don’t let people in easily, do you?” he said, immediately regretting the directness of his words, but perhaps not their message.

Once again, she turned that laser-focused gaze of hers on him and he wondered if she really could cut right through him. “It’s an easy way to not get hurt,” she replied simply. There was a weighty truth to her words, but it didn’t feel right to press further. Theon spun his cup in his hand, thoughtfully.

“What is this place, anyway?” he asked at last.

“My family’s old hunting cabin,” she answered. “My father used to bring me and Robb out here all the time when we young, to learn about hunting and riding and—other things.” She looked around, as if she might be looking for old ghosts.

“Other things?” repeated Theon, curiously.

She shrugged lightly, her eyes a thousand miles—or years—away. “My father would turn everything into a lesson about ruling: about caring for your people or negotiating treaties or anticipating your enemy’s next move.” She shook her head, looking down into her drink. “I always enjoyed the time we spent together, but I just—I never thought I’d be here.”

“You never thought you’d be queen?”

She turned her eyes up to meet Theon’s and there was such a vulnerability there, a truth, and Theon knew he was looking at Sansa’s true self, the self she so often kept hidden from view.

“It was supposed to be Robb—it was  _ always _ supposed to be Robb.” She bit her lip, clearly struggling to find the words to express herself. “Robb was always a natural leader—all of…  _ this _ ,” she gestured vaguely around her, “always came so easy to him. He was always so sure of himself, so charismatic. He could have anyone—the press, the members of state and the nobility—just  _ eating _ out of his hand. And I’m—I’m simply not like that.” She tried to smile, but faltered.

“That’s why you’re always dodging the press conferences,” offered Theon.

“I hate having my every movement…  _ scrutinized _ . I can’t have coffee with someone without it becoming an international incident.” Her laugh was edged with a bitterness. “I just—I wasn’t meant for this. Robb was born to it, literally and figuratively.”

“Did you have any idea he was going to abdicate?”

She shook her head, a lock of hair coming loose at her temple. “No, he never said anything. At least, not to me.” She pushed the hair behind her ear. “I wish he would’ve—at least, it would’ve given me some time to  _ prepare _ . Now I’m days away from my coronation and I can’t—” her words cut off as she pressed her mouth into a hard line.

“You’ll be a good ruler,” the words escaped him, quiet but earnest.

She met his gaze, soft and almost… yearning, but for what, he couldn’t say. Absently, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “What if I’m not?” she asked him simply, the heart of it becoming clear. “What if I fail at this? I’m just—I’m so terrified of letting everyone down.” 

Theon regarded the woman before him for a moment, this woman who suddenly found herself with the care and well-being of an entire nation on her shoulders, this woman who the entire world had suddenly turned their microscopes on.

“What do  _ you _ want, Sansa?” The question seemed to catch her off-guard, perhaps because no one—maybe not even Sansa—had asked it before.

“I…” She stared into the fire, its flickering embers reflected in the swirling ocean depths of her eyes, as she turned the question over in her mind and in her heart. At last, her eyebrows came down, her face determined.

“I want to lead the North.” Her tone was quiet, but deep and unshakeable. “I want to show my people compassion and strength. I want to take their problems as my own and show them there’s nothing to fear.”

The firelight danced upon her features, smooth and timeless and unafraid and in that moment, she truly looked like a queen— _ the _ queen. The Queen of the North. Something tightened in Theon’s chest.

For a while, the only sound between them was the cracking and popping of the logs in the fire. At last, Sansa smiled and stood, motioning for Theon to follow her. “Let me show you something.” She led him to the desk against the wall: it was stacked with a variety of what appeared to be journals, all leather-bound with varying degrees with age. She opened one up, the leather of its cover the least marred of the collection.

“My father was an avid journal keeper,” she explained. “I was going through them the other day and found this,” and she flicked to a page in the middle of the book. “It’s a poem he wrote—I think he had intended to give it to my mother for Christmas last year, before he passed. I thought perhaps I could give it to her this year.” Theon’s eyes roamed over the page, reading the delicate script:

_ Frost a’sparkle in the fields, twixt the frozen minarets _

_ A winter’s journey leads us to a path we’ve not seen yet _

_ From an acorn, a branching tree bears unexpected fruits _

_ And strengthens our pack with its buried roots _

“It’s beautiful,” he said when he finished. “What does it mean?”

Sansa shook her coppery waves. “I’m not sure,” she answered, her fingers delicately running over the parchment. “My father was always doing things like this for my mother, to show how much he cared for her.”

“He must’ve loved her very much,” Theon commented softly. Sansa turned her face to him and suddenly it dawned on him how close they were standing.

Maybe it was the warmth of the fire, maybe it was that breath of lavender, maybe it was the whiskey—maybe it was all three. Whatever it was, it gave him the bull-headed confidence to lean that much closer to her. Her eyes searched his and for a moment, she seemed to hesitate and Theon started to pull away, but her hand took his cheek and suddenly she was pulling him towards her. He closed his eyes and then his lips found hers.

They were as soft as he might’ve imagined and she tasted— _ sweet _ . Sweet—was it her lipstick?—tinted with the bitter taste of the whiskey. It was a heady mix. He felt her lips part and he did the same, allowing her to press her tongue against his own. As she deepened their kiss, he reached out and found her waist, pulling her toward himself.

This was stupid… right? It felt like it should be stupid, but in truth, he couldn’t care. Her body against his, his lips pressed against hers—more than anything, it was surely insane, that he, Theon Greyjoy, resident peasant, currently had the crown princess, Sansa Stark, in his arms. Surely insane.

Sansa shifted her body, angling herself up against the desk. Her hand caught a fistful of the front of Theon’s sweater, and she pulled him against herself, his hips settling between her thighs. Her movement rattled the piece of furniture, causing some of the stacked books to tumble to the floor, but if it bothered her, she made no mind. Theon’s hands roamed over her, moving down her sides to grasp at her thighs. Her hands tangled in his hair as his lips left hers to trail kisses along her cheek and down her neck. He heard her sigh in his ear and so he caught her lips in his again, nipping lightly at them.

He felt one of her hands glide down his chest and the inside of her thighs squeezed tight against him, until—

Outside, the horses made a loud whinny, followed shortly by a long howl belonging presumably to Lady. Sansa broke their kiss, her forehead resting against his, her breath light on his lips.

“I—” she was trying to catch her breath. “I should make sure they’re alright.” He nodded, letting her go, already hating the absence of her. When she’d gone out the cabin door, Theon tried to collect himself, anxiously running his hand through his hair and inhaling deeply. Perhaps that  _ had _ been stupid, but he absolutely refused to feel regret for it.

In an attempt to keep his mind off his racing heart and…other things, he busied himself by squatting down to pick up the fallen books. However, as he collected them, he glanced up at the underside of the desk and—was that a lever?

Now,  _ this _ felt stupid, certainly stupid. But, he summoned his courage—or, more stupidity—and reached out to pull it. Immediately, a small flat hidden compartment toward the top of the desk slid out, almost startling Theon. Atop the revealed compartment was an unremarkable folio, which Theon hesitated to pick up. Clearly, this was meant to be hidden and thus, private. But, something hidden also meant a secret and a secret would certainly make a story…

Wincing against his own moral quandaries, he reached out, took the folio, and promptly stuffed it in his messenger bag. 

When Sansa returned, she was all business, their previous passion wholly evaporated. “It’s late and dark, I ought to get you back to the castle,” she said plainly, throwing on her coat and buttoning it up. Theon didn’t argue.

Their ride back to Winterfell was silent and uneventful, a heavy quiet hanging between them with Theon too afraid to break it. When they entered the castle’s courtyard, Sansa dutifully helped Theon down off his horse. Most of the windows looking out on to the open yard were dark, but a few still had their light on, including one that contained—wait, was that Lady Margaery? Theon peered up at her figure—she was smiling, but before that, well, he was certain her expression was quite a bit darker.

* * *

“This is literally the worst thing I could find, Yara—gods, I wish I’d fucking  _ left it _ —” 

“Settle down, settle down—are you absolutely  _ sure _ about what you’re looking at—”

“I think it’s pretty bloody obvious, Yara—”

“ _ Alright _ , you two,” barked Dany over the pair of siblings, bringing much needed order to their late-night video chat. Once again, Theon sat cross-legged atop his bed in Winterfell and before him were two things: his open laptop bearing the faces of his sister and sister’s girlfriend a million miles away in King’s Landing, and the open folio whose contents he was earnestly wishing he could forget he’d ever seen.

“Theon,” began Dany, the only calm voice of reason in the room, “tell us again  _ exactly _ what you found. And Yara,  _ no _ interruptions this time.”

“Okay,” Theon took a deep breath, running his hand down his face before picking up the contents of the folder spread out on his bed. “I found…” He looked down at the documents in his hands, scanning it, hoping maybe just maybe that he had temporarily forgotten how to properly read. He sighed. “I found Jon Snow’s birth certificate. I found  _ both _ his birth certificates.”

“This is the cousin, right?” asked Dany.

“Yeah,” said Theon, his shoulders slumped, his chin resting in his hand. “He told me his mum was the king’s sister—” he looked at one of the papers. “Lyanna Stark.” His eyes shifted to the other. “But this one—this one says that his mother was a woman named… something Cerwyn. And that his father was actually—Eddard Stark. You know, the late King of the North.”

Dany made a face, but quickly recovered. “So, what does this mean, exactly?”

“What I think it means is that Jon isn’t the prince and princess’s cousin—he’s actually their  _ half-brother _ .” Theon put his face into his hands and let out a muffled groan.

“Why are you so bummed, baby brother?” demanded Yara, leaning towards the screen. “This is your big break—the dirt you’ve been trying to dig out this whole time. Melisandre is going to  _ freak _ when you tell her—”

“I can’t tell her, Yara,” said Theon immediately, taking his face from his hands. “This is…  _ bad _ .” He shook his head. “Everyone thinks the king was this upstanding honorable fellow, but he—he cheated on the queen. And had a kid. That he told everyone was his dead sister’s kid. It’s—bizarrely messed up.” He hugged a pillow to his chest. “And not just that—this could completely mess up Sansa’s claim to the throne.”

“But he’s a bastard, right?” asked Dany. “He wouldn’t get the throne anyway, right?” She threw an unsure look at Yara who shook her head and shrugged.

“No—I don’t know—I googled it,” answered Theon, grabbing his phone and swiping it open. “The Northern law is kind of—unclear. And there’s been cases in the past of bastards inheriting titles and land and… things.” He closed his phone. “I don’t know, it’s enough that it could throw everything off.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing?” offered Yara. “Didn’t you say you thought she was unsure about taking the throne? Maybe she would  _ want _ to sluff the responsibility off on to this Jon person.”

Theon shook his head again. “No, she wants to do this. She may have been apprehensive before, but she wants to lead the North and protect her people.” He paused, thinking of her face lit by the flickering fire. “She wants to do the right thing.”

“Gods,” breathed Dany, placing a hand on Yara’s arm. “You’ve fallen in love with her, haven’t you?”

“ _ What? _ ” squeaked Theon. “No— _ no _ , that’s insane—absolutely insane—”

“It’s not just that,” interrupted Yara, squinting at her brother. “You made out with her, didn’t you?”

“I—I mean, we—there may have been—”

“Oh yeah, he definitely made out with her,” assessed Dany to her girlfriend, who nodded in agreement.

“Can we focus?” pleaded Theon, regretting ever dragging the two of them into this in the first place. “What am I supposed to do?”

Yara’s expression softened in a way her brother had never seen before. “You’ve got to tell her, baby brother. It sucks—it  _ really _ sucks—but you have to tell her. She needs to know.”

Theon sighed, knowing, deep down, that his sister was probably right.

* * *

Theon got perhaps the worst night of sleep in history. After endless stress dreams about losing his pants as well as his phone charger, he’d woken up sometime before dawn and had been unable to convince himself to fall back asleep. After a while, he finally gave up, got ready, and decided to head towards the study for his lesson with Bran.

As he walked (slowly) along, he thought he heard voices—women’s voices—coming out of a nearby room. Part of him had no desire to overhear anymore terrible, family-destroying secrets, but the other part of him—the part that thought one of the voices might belong to Sansa—couldn’t help but stop by the door and surreptitiously peek in. 

He quickly discovered the other voice belonged to none other than Lady Margaery, who was presently intertwining her fingers into Sansa’s, who had her back to Theon.

“You can stop pretending anytime you like, sweet Sansa,” Margaery was cooing at the princess, before taking her cheek and pulling her into a kiss.

At that, Theon looked away and promptly marched himself toward the library, praying that his snooping days might finally be at a damn end.

* * *

That evening, after finishing a day of half-hearted and embarrassingly distracted literature lessons with Bran, Theon returned to his room. He’d seen both Sansa and Jon in passing a few times during the course of the day, but he’d played it extremely cool and done smooth things like  _ turn on his heel immediately and walk the other direction _ . Alright, he’d been horribly awkward, but he hadn’t really known what else to do, and certainly not what to say.

Closing the door behind him, he leaned against it and breathed a sigh. He had to admit, shit had really gone to hell in a hand basket. After a moment, he pushed himself off the door and went over to his messenger bag, pulling out the folder with the arguably cursed documents. What a bloody mess he’d gotten himself into, and for what? A story? A break? Some stupid promotion? Days ago he’d been prepared to do anything to get the damn story, but now that he knew the price that needed to be paid for it? Well, he’d give just about anything to take this stupid folder and put it back in that cabin and forget he ever saw it.

_ Certainly other reasons you’d want to return to that cabin _ , the voice in his head told him sarcastically. He silenced it quickly.

He’d thought that they had… shared something, but, as it turned out, he’d been right: there was no way to compete when people like Lady fucking Margaery were throwing themselves at Sansa. He’d clearly been nothing more than a passing fancy and he needed to make peace with that.

Unbidden, a knock came at the door. He hastily shoved the folio back into his bag and went to open the door. He swallowed when he saw who was behind it.

“Sansa,” he breathed, before quickly correcting himself. “Sorry—I mean, Your Highness. What can I do for you?”

“Can I come in?” Her eyes were as unreadable as always, agitating pools of crystal blue. But her auburn eyebrows were knit together in a look of apprehension.

The image of Margaery kissing her came into his mind for the ninetieth time that day. Theon gripped the door handle. “I’m not sure if that’s such a great idea.”

Sansa’s eyes flickered to the floor for a moment. “Well, then, would you at least take a walk with me?”

He hesitated, but he met her eyes and of course, his resolve melted. “Alright. Let me get my coat.”

As they walked the castle grounds, the atmosphere between them hung heavy with their silence. Inside, Theon was a spinning, hurling mess, the tight tension of all the secrets within him tying him into a million knots. He  _ had _ to tell her, but the very thought of revealing  _ everything _ brought with it such a numbing terror that all he could do was hold his arms tightly across his chest and keep his mouth firmly closed.

And yet, why should he care at all? Why was he still holding a candle for this woman whose feelings for him were surely mixed at best? It was so patently obvious that there was still something between her and Margaery and he was acting a classic  _ fool _ in thinking that there was still any hope for him.

It was Sansa who at last cut through their silence. “I was hoping to come and ask you something, but I can’t help but feel as if I’ve made some sort of misstep.”

He could feel her eyes on him, watching, waiting. But he kept his eyes trained on the stone path in front him as his sneakers lightly padded along. Finally, she came to a halt, taking his elbow.

“Please—talk to me,” she pleaded and he at last raised his eyes to meet hers. He swallowed.

“I—” he began, hating how much his voice trembled. He took a steadying breath before trying again. “Look, I didn’t mean to come in between you and Lady Margaery, and you don’t need to worry, I won’t try—”

“Lady Margaery?” interrupted Sansa, incredulous. “Is that what this is about?”

“I saw the two of you together, this morning,” he admitted, trying to keep the image from flashing into his mind again. “And like I said, I won’t—I won’t come between you two. I get it.”

“ _ Gods _ ,” Sansa half-swore, half-laughed, her curse rising through the cold night air in white smoke. “Margaery is…” she trailed off, trying to find the words. Finally, she narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you know why I broke things off with her in the first place?”

Theon shook his head. 

“I—I loved Margaery—I truly did. But—” she bit at the corner of her mouth, her eyes turning to cracked ice at the memory. “I realized she—she was only using me. Her…  _ endgame _ , was actually Robb. She never wanted  _ me _ , she only wanted a crown. So, whatever you saw—she’s only trying to re-kindle something that died a long time ago.”

Theon’s eyes found his shoes again. Once again, he had no words.

“I thought Margaery loved me, but recently…” she took her hand from her pocket and reached out to brush her fingertips against Theon’s. “I think I’ve begun to see what real love might look like.”

Her voice was so soft and when he met her eyes again, they were soft too, the ice melted away and replaced with blue waves crashing under a warm sun. He took her hand in his, even though every voice of reason inside of him cried out not to. It was wholly impossible to resist her, to pull away from her. She wasn’t just a magnet pulling him in, she was an entire fucking  _ sun _ and resisting her was like trying to fight gravity. 

So, when her other hand found the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss, he did not refuse, but instead held her tight around her waist. 

This kiss was different from their last encounter. Their last one had been full of need and raw passion, but this—this was simple. Soft. Sweet. He felt her nose cold against his cheek and he wondered if maybe they could just stay like this forever, uncomplicated and removed from the world.

When she broke their kiss, she kept her face close to his, her breath a warm wisp against his lips. “Escort me to the ball tomorrow night,” she whispered. 

“Sansa, I—“ Theon began, but she pulled her face away to look at him fully.

“ _ Please _ , Jaime.”

The name was like a thin knife sliding into his belly, cold and cutting, and the perfection of the moment was gone, replaced only by the painful reminder of his deceit. Was it possible to hate himself anymore than he did at this minute?

Her eyes pleaded with him, filled with quiet anticipation. Her hand tightened around his. “When I have you by my side, I feel like I can do anything. I just—I’ll feel less nervous if you’re there with me.”

He worked up a smile. “I’ll be there. For you.”

And the smile she gave him in return practically broke his heart.

As Theon made his way back to his room, he wondered how it was possible to feel so wonderful and feel so terrible at the same time. He had dug himself into a hole so deep, he could barely see the light above him anymore. And worse yet, rather than trying to find a way back  _ out _ of said hole, he’d merely continued digging to the point where he was sure he was just a few feet from the magma fucking core of the earth.

Tomorrow night, he would come clean. He’d see her through her coronation, and then he would tell her everything and pack his bags and leave the North behind.

…But what about the truth about Jon? Wasn’t that information she should have  _ before _ she took the crown? Maybe she would feel differently about her obligations with the knowledge that someone else could take on this duty? 

As he turned down a corridor towards his quarters, he was so wrapped up in his conundrums and what ifs and principles of right and wrong, that he nearly collided with someone,  _ two _ someones—

“Watch where you’re going,” sneered Ramsay Bolton up at him—gods, how did he not  _ smell _ the man coming.

“Apologies, Mr. Sand,” trilled the light voice of— _ Lady Margaery _ ? “Come along, Ramsay,” she said with a sweet smile, tugging the smaller man along.

Theon watched them go, too dumbstruck by the bizarreness of the entire encounter to even force out an apology. This was now the second time he’d seen the extremely unlikely pair together—was Margaery so broken up over her rejection from Sansa that she was drowning her sorrows in Ramsay Bolton’s godawful aftershave? That seemed not just improbable but damn near asinine.

And what were they doing on this side of the castle? Most of the nobility kept to the east wings of the Keep—the direction they were coming from was mostly kitchens and the quarters of the household staff. 

Maybe—maybe Margaery just had a kink for slumming it? And a late evening shag with Ramsay down by the kitchens fulfilled that need?

Now  _ there _ was an image that he didn’t want in his mind.

* * *

The next day, the castle was all a titter again, this time with preparations for the Christmas Eve Ball and, of course, Sansa’s coronation. Theon had more or less confined himself to his room, too busy agonizing over his predicament to be of any real use to anyone.

A knock on the door interrupted his third round of lying on his bed with a pillow over his face and with heavy feet, he walked over to open it.

“Hullo,” greeted Bran, in his usual cheery tone. “Can I come in?”

“Of course,” nodded Theon, stepping aside to let the boy wheel past him. “We didn’t have a lesson today, did we?” asked Theon, his eyes suddenly widening in horror.

“No,” chuckled Bran, but Theon could see that the laughter in his voice wasn’t touching his eyes. He swung into a chair opposite Bran.

“What’s up?” asked Theon, his eyes peering carefully at the boy.

Bran shifted uncomfortably, his hands gripping onto one another. “I imagine you’re almost done with your story?” he said at last, his black eyes heavy with emotion.

Theon nodded slowly. “Looks like it, mate.”

“Did you make up your mind about my sister? About the kind of person she is?” he asked expectantly.

Theon tugged his lips up into a small smile. “Yeah—I think she’s alright. She’ll be a good queen.”

Bran tried to return the smile, but it fell and Theon reached out to take the kid’s knee. 

“If there’s something bothering you, you know you can tell me.”

Bran’s hands seemed to tighten in his lap. “You’re going to go south and you’re going to write your story and then you’ll forget all about us.” The words came pouring out of him, like a torrent of emotion, and once again Theon’s heart broke.

“Hey,” Theon said, giving Bran’s knee a squeeze. “I won’t forget about you. About any of you.” He bent his head down a bit, trying to catch Bran’s gaze which had dropped to the floor. “Maybe you can come visit me down in King’s Landing, yeah? I don’t know if they’ll let me back in the North after this,” he joked, trying to raise the kid’s spirits.

It must’ve worked a bit, because a real smile came over Bran’s face. “I can issue you a royal pardon—I am the prince, after all.”

Theon doubted if even Bran had the power to restore his certainly-revoked passport to the North, but he smiled still.

“Anyway, I have some Christmas presents for you. Something to help you seal the deal with Sansa.”

Theon blinked rapidly in surprise. “I don’t—we haven’t—"

“You’ll have to follow me, though,” Bran said, as he turned and wheeled out of the room, Theon following closely behind.

Bran lead him deep into the castle—just when Theon had started to think he’d seen most of the nooks and crannies of this place, he was still finding new places. At last they came to a pair of frosted glass doors, one of which Theon opened for Bran, before following him in. Looking around, it appeared to be a sort of small salon, with stations for shampooing and drying and cutting and other things that Theon couldn’t identify.

“You guys have a… hair studio here?” Theon asked as he looked about.

“D’you think my mother goes out to get her hair done?” laughed Bran. “I’m going to get you all cleaned up for the ball tonight. As my way of saying thanks. You know, for everything.”

Theon was blown away. “This is so generous, Bran, but do not for a minute pretend that you learned  _ fuck all _ from me as a tutor.”

Bran shrugged, unable to contain his grin. “You were alright.”

Filing out from the back came two young women, one with red hair almost like the royal family and one with deep brown hair, followed by a stout young man wheeling a large rack of clothing. They were all dressed in the typical uniforms of the household staff.

“This is Alys, Jeyne, and Jory,” Bran said by way of introduction, each one waving as he called their name. “And this is Jaime,” Bran motioned to Theon, before grinning again. “He’s your project for the afternoon.”

“Pleasure, ser,” said the man named Jory, who stepped forward to shake Theon’s very stunned hand. “We ought to get your suit picked first, so I can start on the alterations.”

“Oh—that’s—you don’t have to—” Theon stuttered, a little overwhelmed, but Bran cut in.

“I said to do the works on you, and this is the works. Come on,” and he rolled over to the clothing rack to inspect its contents. His hands pushed through the hung garments, finally stopping at a suit made from rich, navy blue fabric, shot with a glittering black. “What about this one? Blue  _ is _ my sister’s favorite color.”

Theon had to laugh, dropping his shoulders in defeat. “The blue one it is.”

After Jory took a number of measurements, some more intimate than others, and only stabbed him with a couple of pins, it was into one of the many salon chairs. While Alys set about shampooing his hair, Jeyne set to work soaking his hands. While they worked, he and Bran chatted and laughed and swapped pranking stories and in the back of his mind, Theon knew he would miss this. A lot.

Bran had mentioned “the works” and that had been no joke. Alys was clearly the hair expert: after she finished his shampoo, she set about cleaning up his haircut (it was the first time he’d had his hair cut by someone other than Yara and somewhere else other than her bathroom in a long, long time.) Theon had never used much more than a comb, but Alys was going at his hair with a strange variety of creams and gels—at one point she sprayed a product on her fingernails to ever so gently sweep it into his bangs.

After Jeyne had finished on his nails—was that a manicure? Did he just have his first ever manicure?—she wrapped his face in a warm towel and prepared him for his shave. It was certainly a trust exercise, letting someone else shave his face and neck for the first time, but her work was so masterful, he didn’t know if he could go back to doing his own shaves ever again.

“Alright, just some final touches,” said Jeyne, rolling over a set of drawers and digging through them. At last, she produced a brush and a bottle, the contents of which she squirted on the back of her hand. She looked up and saw Theon’s apprehension clearly written on his face and smiled. “Don’t worry—just a little concealer to even you out.”

When the ladies had finished their work, Jory reappeared with a handful of hangers containing Theon’s outfit for the evening. Slipping the clothing on was, well, nice.  _ Really _ nice. Inspecting himself in the mirror, he almost didn’t recognize himself—did the cut of the suit actually make him stand a little straighter? Hold his head a little higher? In the very, very,  _ very _ back corner of his mind, a little voice wondered if maybe Bran was right and maybe this  _ would _ seal the deal with a certain crown princess.

When he stepped out of the changing room, Theon gave Bran a little perfunctory twirl.

“Whaddya think?”

“Almost perfect,” appraised Bran. “Just missing one little thing.” And with a smile, he reached behind himself and pulled out a small red, velvet box, which he presented to Theon. 

Theon smiled, gratefully taking the box and opening it with a delicate  _ click _ . Nestled against the plush black velvet of the box were two silver cufflinks, each adorned with a silver and black enamel snarling wolf’s head. 

Bran grinned. “You’ve got jewelry with an obnoxious wolf motif—now you’re really part of the Stark family.”

Theon couldn’t help but laugh, feeling a wetness behind his eyes. “Shit, Bran. Thank you.” And he bent down and took the boy into a tight hug.

“Alright,” said Bran, when they broke apart. “Time to get you to the ball, Cinderella.”

* * *

Gods, had his palms ever sweated this much? He wanted  _ so badly _ to wipe them on his pants, but he was worried he might ruin the fabric. It was definitely the nicest suit he’d ever worn in his life—fuck, it was a  _ tuxedo. _ Theon Greyjoy in a fucking  _ tuxedo _ . Absently he tugged at his bowtie—Jory had tied it for him and thank the gods, because he would have never figured it out. Because he had never worn a bowtie in his life. Because he’d never been to a  _ ball _ in his life.

And here he was. About to go to a ball. With the crown princess Sansa Stark. This was not where Theon Greyjoy had expected to find himself.

_ Deep breath, Greyjoy _ , he reminded himself as he took hold of the door handle and pulled it open.

Behind the door was an entrance hall. Ahead of him, he recognized the Prime Minister and his husband, being greeted by the queen, who looked exceptionally regal in a ball gown of a dark almost midnight purple. On one side of her stood cousin Jon, looking polished and handsome in a black tuxedo and at her other side sat Bran, dapper in his little suit and then—

Then there was her. 

Sansa always looked perfect, but tonight, in her full royal regalia, she was something spectacular. She wore a strapless gown of deep gold which shimmered gently in the light, and across it she wore a royal red sash, as her neck and wrists glittered with jewelry. Simply put, she was breathtaking.

He sucked in another breath and made his way toward the royal family. When Sansa caught sight of him, her lips pulled into a soft smile. She really was like the sun and he felt wholly caught in her pull.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” he said to the queen with a respectful bow when he reached them, before turning to shake Jon’s hand. And then, he turned to Sansa. In her heels, she stood a good three or four inches over him, making her all the more beautiful and statuesque. “Your Royal Highness.” Briefly, he transformed into a much smoother guy than he’d ever been in his life, as he took the princess’s hand and laid a soft kiss on her knuckles. It seemed to impress her, as her eyes glittered at him.

“I like your suit,” she said, smiling. “My favorite color.”

At her side, Bran threw Theon a not-so-discreet thumbs-up. 

“Are you ready?” he asked, lifting up his elbow to her.

“As I’ll ever be.” And she slid her hand up to take hold of him, as he lead her towards the stairs.

“You look…” There were no words to describe her. “Absolutely stunning.”

“Thanks,” she said, a wide smile breaking out across her face. “You look quite nice yourself.” A warmth immediately spread over him. 

As they crested the stairs, the grand ballroom opened up before them. It was a dazzling affair, like something out of the movies: everyone in ball gowns and tuxedos and very fancy jewelry, all drinking champagne from crystal glasses. A string quartet filled the air with an elegant waltz and in the center of the room, couples glided gracefully across the floor. At the far end of the room was a raised dais where the soon-to-be queen’s crown and scepter were on guarded display.

Off to the side, Theon once again spotted Winterfell’s Most Unlikely Couple of Margaery and Ramsay. They both gave him an indiscernible look when he entered—maybe under all that bad cologne Lord Bolton was a sweet, tender guy?

“Care to dance?” asked Sansa.

“I—I don’t think I know how,” Theon admitted a bit sheepishly. “At least, not like this.”

“Don’t worry,” she soothed, taking his hand and leading him towards the floor. “Just let me lead.”

It was no surprise that Sansa moved with the grace of a swan—Theon did his best to keep up, letting the push and pull of Sansa’s hands on him guide them around the floor. But he didn’t worry much about his occasional off-steps because it was all he could do not to be lost in her eyes: they were like two glittering sapphires, set against her perfect porcelain face. She was perfect—he did mention she was perfect, right?

“I’m glad you came,” she told him, her soft smile beaming down at him. “I’m not sure if I’d be here, if not for you.”

Theon shook his head. “You’re definitely giving me too much credit. You got here all on your own.”

“No,” she insisted. “You make me feel so at ease—I feel like I can be my true self, with you at my side.”

Her true self. She’d dropped all her defenses, lowered all her masks, and given him her honest self. Could he say that he’d done the same for her? He tried his best to bury the pang of guilt he felt.

“I have to tell you,” she began, her voice quiet, her eyes soft but earnest. “I—I think I’ve fallen in love with you.”

“Sansa,” he breathed. 

And as the music came to an end, she bent down and brushed a feather light kiss on to his lips. 

From the dais, the Prime Minister called the crowd to attention. Sansa gave Theon’s hand a light squeeze before going off to take the stage herself and it felt like she was slipping through his fingers. But this was the moment: up under the spotlight, Sansa sparkled like a thousand diamonds. Her face was the same as the night at the cabin, resolute and immovable.

“Members of parliaments, guests, and friends,” began the Prime Minister, looking out at the assembled crowd. “On this wonderful Christmas Eve, during a season of hope and new beginnings—Her Royal Highness, Princess Sansa, daughter of our late King Eddard, presents her rightful claim to the crown and throne of the Northern Kingdom.”

Applause spilled forth from the crowd, though with none clapping so hard as Theon. Onstage, an attendant came forward and placed a ceremonial pillow before Sansa, which she dutifully kneeled down upon.

“Sansa,” continued the officiant, turning to face her fully. “Do you pledge your life and fealty to the North and all her subjects?”

Unblinking, with her voice strong and steady, Sansa replied, “I do.”

“Do you swear to protect her, to uphold her sacred laws, in times of wealth or poverty, times of peace or war?”

And with a quick look to her mother, Sansa replied once again, “I do.”

“If any of the peerage wish to dispute Princess Sansa’s claim to the throne,” addressed the Prime Minister to the assemblage, “let them speak now or forever stay silent.”

“ _ I _ dispute her claim.” Margaery’s voice rang out across the crowd like a bell.

“On what grounds?” demanded the Prime Minister, his eyebrows raised in indignant surprise.

“On the grounds that Sansa Stark is  _ not _ Eddard Stark’s eldest heir. King Eddard’s eldest heir is actually,” and here Margaery paused for full dramatic effect, “ _ Jon Snow _ .”

The assembled crowd erupted in a chorus of gasps as all eyes turned to look at Jon, who was clearly just as surprised as everyone else. Immediately, Theon felt his blood run cold.

“And what evidence do you have of this?” asked the Prime Minister again.

Margaery’s features became truly fox like as a wide smile crossed her face. Above her head, she waved a piece of paper and Theon instantly recognized it as the birth certificate he had uncovered. Suddenly, his mind flashed back to the previous night and his literal run-in with Ramsay and Margaery. Shit, they must’ve sacked his room and discovered it, which meant— _ fuck _ . Theon’s heart stopped.

“This birth certificate shows Jon Snow’s  _ true _ parentage—that he’s a bastard of our late king,” Margaery proclaimed proudly, as she approached the dais to pass the document off to the Prime Minister for inspection. “And I obtained it,” she continued, rounding on her heel and looking Theon directly in the eye as she raised a finger at him. “By uncovering a scheme by  _ this _ journalist, who has been posing as a tutor to the prince.”

More gasps as all eyes turned to Theon, and a cold sweat broke out over him.

“Your Grace,” continued the Prime Minister, looking up from the paper in his hands. “Is this true? Did you have knowledge of this?”

For a moment, Queen Catelyn was silent as she surveyed the room. “Yes,” she said at last. “It’s true.”

“Prime Minister,” this time it was Ramsay who addressed the official, his voice dripping with sickly sweet poison. “We humbly request that Jon’s status as heir be reviewed and that he be allowed to pursue his birthright as the King in the North.”

At this, a mixture of cheers and jeers filled the room and in the midst of it all, Sansa fled the stage and out of the ballroom. Theon fought his way through the crowd to follow her.

“ _ Sansa _ ,” he called after her in the empty entrance hall. She stopped, but did not turn around, her head hung. “Sansa,  _ please _ , I can explain—” And he reached out to take her elbow, but she angrily jerked it away, at last turning to face him.

“Don’t you  _ dare _ ,” she whispered at him, her tone filled with ice. “I thought I knew my father—I thought I knew  _ you _ —”

“Please, Sansa, if you’ll let me—" He could feel his eyes filling with tears.

“I thought you  _ cared _ about me—”

“I  _ do _ care about you, Sansa—you  _ have _ to believe me—”

“What’s your real name?” she demanded, her brilliant blue eyes narrowing at him, and he could see there were tears behind hers too.

He swallowed. “It’s—it’s Theon Greyjoy. My name is Theon Greyjoy.”

“Was anything you told me even remotely true?”

“ _ Yes _ ,” he insisted desperately. “Please, I didn’t mean for things to turn out like this—it’s just—things got out of hand—”

She snorted out a derisive laugh. “Well, I’m sure you’ve got quite a story now. I hope it was worth it.” And at that, she turned and strode away from him, leaving Theon standing alone and empty.

* * *

This was not how Theon imagined he would be spending Christmas. Sitting in a Northern train station, more alone and broken-hearted than he’d ever been in his entire life. 

After all the terrible revelations at the ball, he and his things had been promptly escorted off the property. He’d sent Yara a simple text:  _ I fucked up, she hates me, I’m coming home. _ Immediately, she’d tried to call but for perhaps the first time in his life, he’d hit the big red “reject” button. He just… couldn’t. He couldn’t re-hash one of the worst nights of his life, it was still too raw, Moments later, she’d texted back.  _ I get it, we’ll see you soon. Love you _ .

But here, in the cold light of day, at the near empty train station, he needed the comfort of a familiar voice. He pulled out his phone, swiped it open, and dialed.

A second later, a voice greeted him. “Theon, my boy! Happy Christmas!” boomed Uncle Euron’s voice.

“Happy Christmas, Uncle Euron,” returned Theon half-heartedly.

“Yara told me you’re coming home today?”

“Yeah,” said Theon, rubbing at his forehead, trying to fight back the tears that had been threatening to overwhelm him all morning. “Uncle, I—I fucked up. I fucked up big time.”

“Your story?” offered the old man gently.

“I thought this could be my big break, but—but I wound up hurting people I care about and now I’m probably even worse off than when I came up here and—” He cut himself off, putting his head into his hand.

“Hey now,” soothed Uncle Euron. “You know what my father used to tell me and your dad? He’d say that  _ failure plants the seed of success down the road _ . All isn’t lost, my boy—you’ll weather this storm.”

Wait.

Theon pulled his head up. “What did you say?”

“I said you’ll weather this storm?”

“No, before that—”

“Failure plants the seed of success?”

_ Failure plants the seed. _

_ The seed _ .

“Uncle, you’re a fucking  _ genius _ .”

“Am I?”

“Yes, but I’ve got to run—I—I think I can fix this. I love you, I’ll talk to you soon.”

One anxiety-ridden cab ride later and Theon was back at Winterfell, pleading with the wholly unsympathetic Mr. Poole to let him in.

“I ought to have you  _ arrested _ for the stress you’ve put the royal family through,” Mr. Poole was saying. 

“I understand, but please, if you would just listen to what I have to say—” begged Theon.

“And I  _ knew _ you couldn’t be a  _ Sand _ —”

“ _ Please _ , Mr. Poole—if I could just speak to the queen or to the princess—”

“They’re not here,” he sneered down his nose at Theon. “Everyone has assembled at the parliament building to sort out this  _ mess _ you’ve thrown the kingdom into—that disgusting Lord Bolton is trying to have Jon crowned as  _ king _ —"

Then, gods be praised, just over the steward’s shoulder, Theon spotted his lifeline. “ _ Bran! _ ” he called desperately.

“Theon!” returned Bran, hurriedly wheeling himself down the hallway to where the guards and Mr. Poole had blockaded Theon off.

“Bran, I think I can help your sister,” he explained breathlessly.

“Let him through,” called Bran, but Mr. Poole and the guards remained unmoved. Bran huffed his shoulders. “As your prince, I  _ command _ you to let this man through at once.” After an exchange of looks, they at last complied, and Theon raced forward to catch the kid in a quick hug.

“It’s the Christmas tree—I’ll explain on the way—”

“Let’s go,” said Bran immediately, and without a moment to lose, Theon quickly wheeled him in the direction of the Christmas tree the royal family had decorated what seemed like a lifetime ago.

As they went along, Theon poured out an apology to the boy. “I’m so sorry, Bran—I should’ve told you all, but I was just afraid of hurting you—”

“It’s okay,” said Bran, looking up at Theon with those serious black eyes, which seemed to belong to someone much wiser and older. “I’m glad you came back.”

Theon gave him a small smile, but there was work to be done. “Are they really going to crown Jon instead of Sansa?”

“I don’t know,” said Bran with a shake of his long black hair. “Mum and Sansa went to the parliament building this morning because they found out Margaery and Ramsay were trying to push Jon through as the real heir, since he’s older than Sansa and—and I guess he’s my dad’s son, but they have to have a majority of the elected officials there before they can do anything, so they’re trying to round them up, even though so many of them are on holiday.”

Theon huffed out a sigh. “But why Margaery and Ramsay? What dog have they got in this fight?”

“I saw Jon for just a bit this morning,” offered Bran, “he told me that Margaery and Lord Bolton kept trying to butter him up at the ball—he said it was really strange, Ramsay even mentioned the Boltons being allowed back at court—”

Was that it then? Did Ramsay know that it was a hopeless cause trying to convince Sansa to reinstate his family, so he thought he might have better luck with a different heir to the throne? That maybe Jon would be so grateful to Ramsay for restoring him to his birthright that he’d return full honors to the shamed Bolton name? And what about Margaery? Did she too realize she wouldn’t be able to get what she wanted from Sansa—a marriage to a crown—so she thought she’d try her luck with cousin Jon?

There was no more time to analyze Ramsay and Margaery’s ill intents, however, as Theon turned the corner into the apartment with the Christmas tree. Immediately, Theon rushed forward, knowing exactly what he was looking for.

“My father’s acorn ornament?” asked Bran curiously. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

It was difficult work considering just how bloody  _ sweaty _ Theon’s hands had gotten, but with some effort, he managed to pop the top of the seed off and contained within—to Theon’s relief—was a piece of folded parchment, bearing the deceased king’s seal. With shaking fingers, Theon plucked it out and read it over before passing it to Bran.

When he was done, Bran looked up at Theon. “We’ve got to get to parliament, straightaway.”

And so they did, bursting through the doors of the building and into the parliament chamber like something out of a fucking Christmas film. The scene laid before them was certainly something to behold, with the chamber full of arguing officials—some of who were grumpy about leaving their families on the holiday—and at the front stood the Prime Minister, actively guarding the royal crown and scepter as he pointed a finger at Margaery and Ramsay, who were yelling at Queen Catelyn while Sansa stood at her side, silent and fuming. And at the center of it all, Jon, who seemed to want nothing more than to disappear.

“Jon  _ is  _ the eldest of the king’s bloodline—it should be him who sits the throne,” Margaery was saying.

“Queen Catelyn is only interfering because she is still  _ bitter _ over the king’s indiscretion—” piped in Ramsay.

“Does Princess Sansa even wish to take her father’s throne?” argued an official. 

“Will she simply abdicate like her brother?” demanded another.

“Wait,  _ wait! _ ” cried Theon, running down the aisle, feeling every bit a fool as he waved the folded piece of parchment above his head, but knowing he had to try and make this right and gods he hoped this would do it. As he approached the center of the chamber, the queen and princess both turned their gaze on him, and for a moment Theon really felt like their combined power could melt him on the spot, but on he pressed.

“I found this—among the king’s things—in the acorn,” gods, he was out of breath. “It’s proof that Sansa was always meant to be your queen.”

“Give that here,” commanded Queen Catelyn and Theon immediately obeyed. Her eyes scanned the paper quickly, softening as they read. Finally, she pressed it into her daughter’s hands. “You ought to read it aloud, child.”

With an apprehensive look to her mother, Sansa took the paper and began to read from it.

“ _ The old laws of the North decree that my firstborn child, Robb Stark, shall take the throne upon my passing. We are always duty bound to follow the law, for our ways are the old ways. However, sometimes the upholding of duty requires us to forge a new path and find a new way. My kingly duty is to give the North a leader that will care for her people and lead them through any and all hardships, but to do that requires that I, in fact, break with the old ways. _

“ _ Therefore, it is the will of your king, Eddard Stark, that I amend the law to allow me to name my own successor, my daughter, Sansa Stark. Although this decree gives her a lawful right to pursue the Northern throne, it is by her own attributes—her spirit, her sensitivity, her intelligence, and her heart—that she earns this honor to be a true servant to the people of the North _ .”

As she looked up from the parchment, a single tear rolled down Sansa’s cheek.

Silently, she passed the paper to the Prime Minister, who reviewed it before proclaiming to the quorum, “It is a legitimate decree from the king—it bears his official royal seal.” And at that, the chamber broke out into heavy applause.

“But what about Jon’s claim to the throne?” called out Ramsay over the din. “He is still an heir of King Eddard—”

“I may be King Eddard’s heir,” answered Jon, stepping out towards the queen and princess. “But it’s Sansa who deserves the throne. She is a true Northerner and it’s she who will lead us. So, I formally renounce my claim to the throne and pass that honor,” and at this, he smiled, “to my sister.”

“In that case,” the Prime Minister continued, not hiding his joyful relief as he picked up the scepter, “then perhaps we may continue?”

“By all means,” replied Sansa, stepping forward and kneeling before him, a proud smile warming across her features.

And once again, he recited the old words and proudly, Sansa’s voice rang out in the chamber, “ _ I do _ .”

“Then by the power vested in me, I now crown you, Sansa of House Stark, the Queen of the North.” The Prime Minister lowered the crown, a braided circlet of silver ending in two fearsome direwolves, atop Sansa’s cascading copper curls.

Once again, raucous applause and cheering filled the chamber, echoing off the walls, until slowly it evolved into a chant, a rally, hells  _ a battle cry _ :

_ The Queen of the North! _

_ The Queen of the North! _

_ The Queen of the North! _

Sansa rose, her head held high, looking every bit the queen she was always meant to become: strong, beautiful, unyielding. Theon smiled to himself, knowing his work here at last was done, and ever so quietly, he slipped out of the chamber, as the Northern people cheered for their new queen.

* * *

This was not how Theon Greyjoy had expected to spend New Year’s Eve—no, wait, this was  _ exactly _ how Theon had expected to spend New Year’s Eve: single, broke, and working at his uncle’s pub.

Melisandre had been… less than impressed with his piece on the Royal Family. He’d insisted it was the true and accurate portrait of the princess, but Melisandre—in a moment of cruel irony—had called it nothing more than a soft-hearted puff piece. Clearly, she’d been disappointed that he hadn’t let the magazine break the shocking news of Jon Snow’s parentage, her manicured eyebrows locked in a furrowed frown.

“You blew it, Greyjoy,” she told him from behind her vast glass desk. 

“Yeah,” Theon admitted, laughing a little. “But not for the reasons you think.” And he stood, walked from her fishbowl office, packed his desk and left.

So now, with no job, he’d moved out of his shitty flat and onto Yara and Dany’s couch and gone back to work at Uncle Euron’s pub. It wasn’t all bad—being back with his family gave his spirits a much needed lift, and working at the pub mostly kept his mind off things, like the fact that he missed Sansa with every last bit of his stupid broken heart and that every time he saw a redhead on the street, he’d hoped against hope that maybe it was her, here to say that she forgave him and that she missed him and needed him.

But that was a fool’s dream. Sansa owed him nothing and he tried his best to complete the impossible task of forgetting all about the Northern queen who had freckles on her cheekbone and lavender in her hair.

“Drink up, baby brother—you look absolutely  _ miserable _ ,” said Yara, shoving a glass towards Theon. The trio of them—Theon, Yara, and Dany—were all tucked into a booth at Euron’s pub.

“You know I’m technically on the clock,” retorted Theon. “And unlike you, I don’t drink at work.”

“Yeah, but no one is going to fuck you if you’re always looking more somber than a septa—”

“I don’t need anyone to fuck me, thanks very much—”

“ _ Beg _ to differ, baby brother—”

“Did you see this, Theon?” interrupted Dany, thrusting her phone between the warring siblings. “That article you wrote on the princess, it popped up on my feed again. It’s got over  _ 20,000 _ likes—not too shabby.”

Theon chuckled as he absently rubbed at the back of his neck. “Yeah, just waiting for the job offers to come rolling in.”

Dany smirked at him, her violet eyes soft. “I read it, you know—all the things you said about the princess—it sounds like you really—”

But cutting her off was the loud  _ thump _ of a snowball hitting the front window of the pub.

“Oi!” called Uncle Euron, starting to push his sleeves up and march towards the front, but Yara stuck out a hand and stopped him. “They’re with us,” and she waved at them to come in.  _ Them _ were a man—tall, tan, and athletic-looking, with his dark hair pulled into a man bun—and a woman—slender, sweet, with natural curls. 

“These are a couple of Dany’s friends,” Yara introduced. “This is Daario and Missandei.”

They each waved at Theon with friendly, expectant smiles. For a moment, Theon looked between them and his sister, who was looking a little too casual.

“Did you—” pointing at the pair and narrowing his eyes at his sibling. “Did you bring them  _ both _ here to try and set them up with me?”

“What?” Yara asked innocently, throwing up her hands. “Can’t blame a girl for hedging her bets.”

“ _ Yara! _ ” scolded Dany, turning to her girlfriend, her eyes incensed. 

“Oh, come  _ on _ ,” continued Yara. “I figured he’d be into at least  _ one of them _ —”

“No,  _ you _ come on—we’re leaving,” decided Dany, pushing Yara from the booth. She stopped and turned to Theon. “Are you sure you don’t want to join us?”

Theon laughed and shook his head. “Nah, I promised Uncle Euron I’d work tonight. You lot go and have fun, and keep a close eye on that one,” he said with a motion to Yara.

“Will do. Say bye, Yara.”

“Bye Theon,” said Yara, before pulling him into a bear hug. “Happy New Year’s, baby brother.”

“Happy New Year’s, Yara.”

Theon watched the happy quartet go, smiling quietly to himself, and shoving away the quiet pang of sadness that shot through him.

As midnight approached, Uncle Euron, ever the celebrator, began pouring all his patrons bottom shelf champagne into plastic flutes. The pub had one old TV mounted in the corner, which his uncle had tuned to the New Year’s countdown. As the pub’s inhabitants, led by his uncle, began their raucous countdown, another snowball collided against the window. Sighing, Theon went to grab his coat, prepared to try and settle his certainly drunk sister and her compatriots.

“ _ Har-fucking-har _ , Yara—” Theon called as he pulled open the door. But it wasn’t Yara.

There, standing in the swirling snow, her hair floating like soft copper tendrils in the cold breeze, was none other than Sansa Stark. Theon almost didn’t believe it—he’d spent the last week searching every crowd for her face only to be disappointed and yet here she was, tall and beautiful in her white wool peacoat, standing outside his uncle’s pub.

“Sansa?” he called, wondering if it would be childish to pinch himself. “What are you doing here?” he asked when he reached her.

A soft smile was on her lips. “You left before I had the chance to say goodbye. And… before I could thank you.”

“You have nothing to thank me for,” Theon said immediately, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I almost cost you your throne, I spilled your father’s secret—”

“No,” said Sansa, shaking her head. “You revealed the truth, an important truth—now Jon knows who he is and I know that—that the throne is where I’m meant to be.”

Theon smiled, his heart clenching in his chest. “How’s Bran?” he asked.

“He misses you terribly,” she replied honestly. “Truth be told that’s half the reason I’m here—he wouldn’t stop begging me to come see you.” She bit back a smile. “He showed me what you wrote about us—about me—online.”

A flush came to Theon’s cheeks. “I promised your brother I’d write the truth and—and that’s what I did. And the truth is that you’re strong and smart and beautiful and even if you  _ are _ a taxi-thief, you’re still—you’re still the best leader for the North.”

She laughed, a sweet, trilling laugh. Gods, it’d only been a week, but was it possible that she’d actually become  _ more _ beautiful? Theon felt something swell in his chest.

“Sansa,” he breathed her name like a prayer, and it in the cold air it seemed to float up to the gods themselves. “I have to tell you—the truth, the  _ real _ truth, is that I—I think I love you, too.”

“Good,” she said simply. “Then this next part should be easy.”

And there, in the middle of a sidewalk in front of a hole-in-the-wall pub in King’s Landing, Sansa Stark kneeled down in the snow, and held up a small black box to Theon.

“Theon Greyjoy—it is Theon Greyjoy, right?” she asked with a smirk. He laughed and nodded.

“Alright then—Theon Greyjoy, will you marry me?” She opened the small box and contained within was a silver band, set with three, pale blue, sparkling stones.

“I—I—” Theon’s head was spinning—this was  _ definitely _ not how he saw himself spending New Year’s Eve. “But—we hardly know each other—you said so—”

“I know that I love you and that’s enough,” she replied, her eyes sparkling even brighter than the stones in the ring. “Come to the North and be my king. I want you by my side, now and always.” Her face practically glowed in the moonlight as she looked up at him. “What’s your answer?”

“Sansa—this is absolutely crazy—my whole life is in King’s Landing—”

“I don’t want you to give up anything you don’t want to,” she cut in, eyes earnest. “You can come back south as often as you like, or you can bring your family to the North anytime you want. Whatever it takes.”

He looked at her, looked at the whole  _ sight _ . Sansa Stark, beautiful and gallant, down on one knee, asking him— _ him _ , Theon  _ fucking _ Greyjoy—to come North with her. To marry her. It’d felt so sudden, so whirlwind, but as his brain processed the realization that he would be waking up every morning next to her, next to this woman who surprised him and delighted him and made him feel as if—

“Theon,” she laughed, “I love you, but my knee is getting  _ very wet _ down here—”

“Gods,  _ yes _ , I’ll marry you—I definitely don’t deserve—” but Sansa had already stood and pulled him into a deep kiss. Overhead, as the new year rolled over, fireworks exploded all over King’s Landing, showering the two of them in dazzling colorful light.

“Happy New Year,” she whispered against his lips.

“Happy New Year, Sansa.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! I might try to do A Christmas Princess 2: The Royal Wedding, but I promise that will have a significantly higher content rating. Thanks again!


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